Out of the Ashes
by VoicesOffCamera
Summary: "'We really can't draw any conclusions until we know all the facts.' / 'Like who the hell that Robin Hood wannabe was who outshot my agents using only a couple sticks and a string from the Dark Ages'" When a botched mission sends Phil Coulson after a mysterious archer, he gets much more than he bargained for. [Hawkeye Origin; No Slash]
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hello Avengers fandom! This is my first Avenger story, so please be kind! I was inspired by Aggie2011's Vantage Point Saga, which is based around Clint Barton, starting from when he was first recruited and covers up through and after the first Avengers movie. If you have not read any of those stories: DO IT! They are amazing, by far my favorite stories on this site!

So, this is my own take on how Clint Barton could have been recruited by Phil Coulson. I kind of pieced together elements from the MCU, Matt Fraction's Hawkeye comic books and also took some bits and pieces from his character background on the Marvel Universe Wiki, as well as took my own liberties. So hopefully this is a version that hasn't been done to death!

Also note that the majority of this (if not all of this, I actually haven't quite decided yet…) will be from Phil Coulson's perspective. I started off bouncing between his and Clint's perspective, but then decided it would be more fun if the audience learns about my version of Clint at the same time as Phil! If there's enough interest, I may post some separate one shots with Clint's perspective of certain scenes after they are posted.

Okay, with all that out of the way, let's get on with this! Hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **Out of the Ashes**

 **Chapter One**

Slowly and carefully, Phil eased the door open, listening to the hinges groaning painfully from disuse. He led with his gun, knowing that there very well might still be at least one hostile still in the area. He carefully swept the room looking for any sign of life, his eyes following the line of sight from his gun in a well-practiced move.

Honestly, he almost completely overlooked the figure in the otherwise empty room. It wasn't until he stepped fully into the room and was able to look past the open door that he spotted him. He immediately recognized him and as he did he flicked his gun in his hand ninety degrees, holding it out and up as he rotated the barrel to face straight up while clearly showing his finger was nowhere near the trigger. It was a small motion that he hoped the figure would take as a sign that he meant no harm.

"Barton?" he called, weary of the response he was going to get. "It's just me, it's Coulson. I'm here to help you."

He took a cautious step forward… and froze as an arrow tore through the air, passing close enough to his temple that he felt the weapon skim his skin.

"Next one won't miss, Coulson," came a low voice burning with barely contained anger.

Phil swallowed as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he was finally able to make out Barton's features. He was sitting pressed defensively in the far corner of the room with his left knee up and his right leg stretched out in front of him. His bow was up and surprisingly steady given the circumstances, an arrow nocked and pointed directly at him. He was pale and sheen of sweat had settled across his brow, but his eyes were what really caught Phil's attention. Despite his sickly appearance, his gaze was razor sharp and for the first time since they had met his eyes showed the emotions that he normally kept hidden. Anger, fear and betrayal all battled to be heard in a blue-gray storm.

His eyes were what cut Phil the deepest.

Then Phil's gaze fell and in the dim light he could just make out something dark and wet soaking the lower right side of Barton's t-shirt. As the clouds outside shifted, letting a ray of sunlight in through the window behind him, Phil could also spot a small puddle shinning up from the floor where Barton sat.

Blood.

* * *

 _ **Four and a Half Months Earlier**_

"What _exactly_ happened out there." Nick Fury didn't phrase it as a question, rather speaking each word as if it were its own individual statement. He leveled a steel cold stare from behind his desk at the man standing in front of him.

"We aren't completely sure, sir," Phil Coulson hedged. "We're looking into it."

" _Looking into it_?" Fury repeated, his eye narrowing. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that there's still more information that needs to be obtained," Phil explained patiently. "We really can't draw any conclusions until we know all the facts."

He was spouting a bunch of bullshit. And by the look in Fury's eye, the man knew it.

"Like who the hell that Robin Hood wannabe was who outshot my agents using only a couple sticks and a string from the goddamn Dark Ages?" Fury demanded.

"Among other things," Phil allowed with a shrug. "With all due respect, sir, this isn't exactly a botched mission. We did get our man, after all."

"Like hell we did," Fury barked. " _Getting_ our man insinuates that _my_ agents either captured and brought him in or eliminated the threat. My agents were made to look like idiot children, out gunned by some nobody with a damn bow and arrow."

"Yes, but the target was, in fact, eliminated," Phil pointed out, though there wasn't much force behind his tone. He knew he was fighting a losing battle.

"Coulson," Fury snapped. "Cut the crap. I want an ID on our goddamn William Tell. I want to know who he is, where his alliances lay, I want to know the name of his damn childhood goldfish. A guy who can make our agents look like fools is one of two things. He's either an asset or a threat. I need to know which it is."

"Yes, sir. I'm on it," he assured Fury.

"Good," Fury said with a nod. "Get it done." Then he turned and Phil took that as a dismissal as he too turned and strode from the room.

The crowds in the hallways parted like the Red Sea as Phil stormed through the New York SHEILD base. The light heartedness he had clung to in his meeting with Director Nick Fury had melted away, leaving a hard look that left even seasoned agents scrambling to get out of his way.

Last night's mission had been a complete disaster.

They had been pursuing the leader of this national drug cartel, Malcolm Bates, for months. Tracking his moves carefully, plotting just the right moment to take him down. It had been planned so carefully with back-up plans upon back-up plans, primed to go off without a hitch. They thought they had Bates cornered, but after one of the agents accidentally tipped off one of the bodyguards outside, an unexpected firefight ensued. It was then that they found out the hard way that there had been a tertiary escape route out of Bates' hideout in Brooklyn, one that they hadn't anticipated.

They were at risk of losing him, losing all the work they had done for months, if he got the chance to go to ground. They had quickly split up into three groups of three agents each to canvas the area. Phil – who had been overseeing the mission with the surveillance and support team in a nearby building – had joined one of the teams to even out the numbers.

In the end, it had been his team to catch up with their man.

They tracked him to an old, abandoned building just a few streets over from the hideout. Agents Johnson and Geller had beaten Phil up to the roof, who had stopped to clear an extra room he had found on the top floor. By the time he had gotten up to the roof, Bates was down… with an arrow sticking out of his chest. He hardly had time to register that as his attention was drawn to a figure that was crouched up on the ledge on the far side of the roof, a bow held loosely in one hand as both his agents' guns were leveled on him from where they were both kneeling in the middle of the roof. The guy was wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled down low to hide most of his face… except for a smirk that quirked his lips. He used two fingers of his free hand to give a lazy salute before he disappeared over the ledge.

It was only after the fact that Phil realized both his agents were injured. Agent Johnson had taken a bullet to the hip while Agent Geller had gotten creased on his arm and taken a bullet to his shin. Both had to be med evac'ed out due to heavy bleeding. Later that night they would report that they had fired several shots upon cornering Bates on the roof, but none of them landed as they had been inhibited by the lack of visibility on the cloudy night as well as the numerous shadows on the roof.

In contrast, after the Bates' final shot had landed and as he was preparing for kill shots while the two agents struggled to reload their own weapons, two arrows had torn across the roof only seconds apart, so close together that the agents weren't convinced that there weren't two shooters. The first arrow knocked the gun out of Bates' hand – Geller admitting that probably saved his life – and the second had buried itself in the target's chest, killing him instantly.

This mystery guy had done with two arrows what his agents hadn't accomplished with almost a dozen bullets between them.

Phil entered one of the base's computer labs, a busy place with a flurry of activity since he had left them last night to track down their affectionately nicknamed 'Shit Starter.'

"How'd it go, sir?" one of the senior techs, James Bradbury, asked as Phil approached his work station.

"Pretty much as expected," Phil said with a weary sigh. "He wants an ID on our third player on his desk by yesterday at the absolutely latest." His eyes wandered to the computer screen. "How we looking?"

Bradbury sighed. "Not good," he admitted as he turned back to his console, typing hurriedly. "We just don't have much to go on. All we really have is a partial facial photo from one of the on-site agent's vest cam. I've been running it through systems in New York, but so far there's been no match."

"Really?" Phil said, perplexed.

That was odd. New York City was a well photographed area. For someone to be within the city limits and yet not appear on any security footage? That was suspicious. It spoke of someone who wanted to stay under the radar. Someone with something to hide. And somebody who was dangerously good at it.

"What about the arrows?" Phil asked.

"No identifiably markings," Bradbury told him shortly without breaking keystroke. "Untraceable, possibly homemade."

"Widen the search to include all surrounding airports and bus stations," Phil instructed. "Maybe he hasn't been in town long." He paused, thoughtful. "Also run a search for reports of bow and arrows. Headlines, police reports, social media posts, anything you can find. I want any and all reports sent directly to me, I'll filter through them myself."

"Yes, sir," Bradbury agreed, his keystrokes increasing in frequency.

Phil stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest. As the tech entered the new parameters for the search, the information they had went up on the main screen at the front of the room. The guy's photo appeared front and center. The hood of the sweatshirt he was wearing cast harsh shadows over his face. The only thing that was really visible was the lower part of his face, a smirk on his lips and about half his nose. Not much to go on indeed.

 _Who the_ _ **hell**_ _are you?_ Phil thought to himself.

* * *

In the end, it had been a stroke of luck that brought him to the small police station in a tiny town in the backwoods of Virginia.

Phil had spent the last seventy-two hours sifting through a mind-numbing amount of police reports and news headlines involving bow and arrows. With the recent release of a movie called _The Hunger Games_ , there had been a severe uptick in the number of drunk idiots doing stupid stuff with bow and arrows.

It was a gut instinct that sent him to Arrington, Virginia. The report that caught his eye stated that a John Doe was booked into a holding cell after a bar fight. No identification was found on the guy and he was refusing to give a name. The only personal effects the guy had on him when he had been arrested was a bow and a quiver containing half a dozen arrows.

Phil knew it was a long shot, especially after the fruitless trip to New Jersey under similar circumstances the day before. But with Fury on his back constantly looking for results while he was at base, he figured it couldn't hurt to take the trip while the techs continued looking for more leads.

A phone call ahead and some strategic paper work sent over ensured that there were no questions upon his arrival.

"Don't know why the government's interested in this one," the cop drawled as he led Phil back to the holding cells. "Pretty cut and dry bar fight situation here."

"I noticed you didn't take any fingerprints or try to identify this guy," Phil pointed out conversationally.

Half the reason he had decided to take the trip was because the locals didn't seem to feel the need to run the guy through the system. That wasn't terribly unusual for these small-town cops who didn't see much more than their own locals, but it still felt a little too convenient for this mystery man.

"He's not being charged with anything," the cop said with a shrug. "Everyone's pointing fingers but no one wants to press charges. Pretty standard for this kinda situation. We just keep them twenty-four hours as a cooling off period. Not to mention, it seems like this guy is just passing through." He paused as if something were just occurring to him. "Is he wanted for something?"

"Not sure yet," Phil said honestly.

The man shot him a strange look, but decided not to comment.

As they entered the jail, the first thing that Phil noticed was that most of the guys in lock up were in cells close to the front of the long hallway, with three to four people per cell. That was pretty standard practice, so he didn't think much of it at first. His eyes were already searching the faces as they made their way down the corridor. But the officer didn't slow his pace, passing all the occupied cells without so much as a glance. They passed about half a dozen empty cells before the man came to a stop in front of the last cell in the row.

Phil looked in the cell, taking in the lone figure laying on the cot, then looked at the officer, cocking an eyebrow in question.

"He... made the other guys nervous," the officer hedged. "We figured it'd be best to keep some extra space between them."

"Uh huh," Phil hummed, glancing back at where the rest of the contained men were held. _Extra space_ would have been an empty cell or two between them. This seemed a bit excessive. "And how many of those guys did this guy fight?"

"Kid took on six of them," the officer told him.

"Six?" Phil repeated as he turned back to the cell. "Impressive." There was an awkward pause. Phil glanced back at the officer. "You gonna let me in?"

"You sure?" the officer asked in surprise. "You know we can put him in an interrogation room with cuffs on if you want."

"Not necessary," Phil assured him easily.

"Okay," the officer said skeptically as he took the keys from his belt and unlocked the door. "Just shout when you're ready to come out."

"Will do," Phil said as he stepped into the cell. He heard the door close behind him and lock. Then they were alone.

Through the entire exchange, the figure had not moved. The cot was pushed up against the left wall of the cell and the figure was sprawled out with his head on the end closest to the door. His fingers were laced behind his head and his eyes were closed. For a moment, Phil thought he might be asleep. But as he approached, he noticed the way the guy's muscles tensed, as if preparing for some kind of attack. Still, though, he didn't open his eyes.

Phil took the opportunity to simply study him for a minute. The first thing he noticed was that there was definite evidence of the recent bar fight. At a glance, he could see that he had a black eye and a split lip. The second thing he noticed was that the term 'kid' that the officer had used earlier had been more accurate than Phil had thought it'd be. The guy couldn't be much more than in his late teens.

Phil was tempted to dismiss him based on that fact alone. But then his gaze took in the sweatshirt he was wearing. It was the same grey, hooded sweatshirt that their mystery man from the other night had been wearing, down to the faded, unidentifiable logo on the front.

Could this _kid_ really be the one who had shown up several top SHEILD agents?

Finally, the kid shifted and opened his eyes. Blue grey eyes focused in on him immediately with a startling amount of intensity. For a moment, they were both completely still.

"I didn't ask for a lawyer," the kid finally said conversationally as he looked him up and down from where he lay.

"I'm not a lawyer," Phil said simply.

There were a few long moments of silence as the two sized each other up.

"Then who are you?" he finally asked.

"Phil Coulson," he said. He extended a hand. The kid just stared at it as if he had never encountered the gesture before. "And you are?" he prompted after an awkward moment of silence.

"Albert Einstein," he answered immediately with a smirk, still making no move to take Phil's hand.

It was that smirk that really tipped the scales for Phil. He had committed it to memory as he had studied the only photo of their Shit Starter that they had. It was the same exact smirk looking up at him from this jailcell cot as the one that had been flashed at him that night on the rooftop in New York City.

Phil kept the polite smile on his face as he dropped his hand back to his side. "Mr. Einstein," he greeted sincerely. "I'm a big fan of your work."

"Always nice to meet a fan," the kid said, shifting slightly. "But if you don't mind, I'm really very swamped right now."

"I can see that," Phil said with a nod and a glance around the empty cell. "So, I'll cut right to the chase. I'm looking for a guy I ran into a few days ago in New York City."

"New York City, huh?" the kid said, raising his eyebrows. "Quite a ways from here."

"Yes, it is," Phil agreed. "I'm starting to think this guy might like to move around a lot." He paused. "Still trying to figure out why though."

"Yeah, well, good luck with that," the kid said, shifting his gaze away to look straight up at the ceiling, clearly an attempt to indicate he was done with the conversation.

Phil was not so easily swayed.

"Pretty impressive how you made it so far in just three days," he said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the opposite wall of the cell. "Especially without showing your face to any security cameras between here and New York. Probably safe to rule out public transit?"

"No idea what you're talking about, Mr. Coulson," the kid said, his gaze unwavering as he studied the ceiling. "Never actually been to New York City."

"Really?" Phil said skeptically. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind donating some fingerprints then? We can compare them to the guy I'm looking for and clear up this little mix-up."

It was a bluff. They didn't have any fingerprints from the scene that they could compare to. Even the arrows they had recovered had been clean. But if he could run this kid through the system, find out who he really was and get a better idea of what kind of person he was dealing with, he hoped things would become clearer.

To his credit, the kid only hesitated a moment longer than he should have, a tell that only someone who knew what to look for would have noticed. Then he shrugged one shoulder.

"Sure," he said, apparently unconcerned. "Happy to help."

"Great," Phil said with a smile as he pushed off the wall and stepped forward. "Let's get started then."

His sudden movement got an immediate response. The kid was immediately sitting bolt upright and swinging his legs around so that he was properly facing Phil's approach. The movement was so sudden that Phil actually faltered for a moment, wondering if he should be expecting the kid to spring up and attack him. However, it wasn't an aggressive position that he settled into, but it seemed more like a defensive one. He would have been vulnerable had he let Phil approach while he had been laying down.

The sheer speed of the action spoke of a gut instinct that Phil usually only saw from agents who had been in the field for years.

After a slight pause he continued forward, but moved much more carefully and deliberately, mindful not to make any sudden movements and to not get any closer than he needed to. Clearly this kid was jumpy, and there was no reason to exacerbate that issue at the moment.

"It just so happens that I have a kit right here in my bag," Phil said as he carefully dug around in his bag for a moment.

"Well, isn't that handy," the kid replied dryly.

Phil ignored him as he set up his equipment. It was a high-tech device that would scan each fingerprint into the hard drive immediately, and then send the completed set off to his tech back at the base. He set up the scanner on the edge of the cot next to where Barton sat, and for a moment thought about perching on the edge of the cot himself with the device between him and Barton. He quickly decided that would be a bad idea though, given the way Barton had responded to his initial approach, and settled for dropping to one knee next to the cot.

"Isn't that fancy," the kid observed, suddenly sounding guarded as he watched Phil work. He shot Phil a suspicious look. "Where did you say you were from again?"

"Wisconsin originally," Phil said off-handedly, knowing full well that wasn't what he was asking. "Left hand first, please."

The kid hesitated before he slowly held out his left hand. Phil took it carefully and guided it to the scanner. Starting with his thumb, he firmly placed each digit to the surface to be scanned. The process took about thirty seconds per scan, and there was awkward silence as he worked. He would glance at the attached computer screen as he worked, which would show an image of the fingerprint as it was scanned. He scanned the pointer finger of the kid's left hand three times, thinking that there was a glitch, before the kid finally spoke up.

"That's not wrong," he pointed out calmly, nodding at the screen which showed almost nothing outside of the edge of a print. "That's what it looks like."

Phil took a moment to turn the kid's hand over in order to really look at his fingers. His middle three fingers on his left hand were so calloused that he virtually didn't have any fingerprints at all.

"I take it you're left handed?" Phil deduced as he went back to work, knowing that a bowstring was drawn with a person's dominant hand. He also remembered their mystery man holding the handle of the bow in his right hand. That would make sense for a lefty.

The kid only nodded vaguely. As he continued to work, Phil couldn't help but notice the degree that his fingers were calloused. Clearly, he wasn't just another nut on the retro weapons bandwagon, brought about by the recent popularity of post-apocalyptic and dystopian books and movies. He had to have been practicing archery for years to have developed callouses like these. Which begged Phil's next question.

"How old are you?" he ventured after a minute, his eyes still focused on the task at hand.

"Forty-six," the kid said with a smirk. Phil shot him a look that had made lesser men crumble. This kid simply chuckled. "No, really," he insisted. "You should see my kickass moisturizing regiment. Admit it, I don't look a day over thirty, do I?"

Phil rolled his eyes. "Honestly, you don't look a day over sixteen. Maybe I should make you call your parents."

The kid snorted derisively at that. "Fine. I'm nineteen," he admitted.

"Huh," Phil hummed as he switched to the kid's right hand. "The locals said you seemed to be just passing through. Nineteen is pretty young to be traveling around on your own."

The kid only shrugged one shoulder noncommittally.

Sensing that he was pushing his luck, Phil finished fingerprinting in silence.

"Well, I appreciate your cooperation," Phil said as he packed up his equipment.

"Sure, anytime," the kid said as he kicked back on the cot. "Good luck finding your guy."

Phil simply nodded noncommittedly as he crossed the cell and reached his hand through the bars, signaling to the officer at the other end of the hallway that he was finished. His gut told him he had already found his guy. But he needed more information before he could justify bringing him in.

"I've got some leads to check in with," Phil told the officer once they were back out in the lobby of the station. He stopped and turned, making sure he had the man's gaze as he continued. "Make sure you do _not_ release that kid until you hear from me. I shouldn't be more than an hour or two."

"No worries," the officer assured him, unconcerned. "He's still got about six hours until we'd let him go anyway."

"I'll be back well before then," Phil assured firmly. "Keep him in that cell."

"Don't worry, that kid isn't going anywhere."

As Phil headed out of the station, he was already dialing his phone.

"Bradbury, it's Coulson," he said as the tech answered. "Listen, I just sent you prints on our John Doe in Virginia. I need you to run them immediately, get me anything and everything you can find on this guy. I want everything from his birth certificate to his school records to his overdue library books."

" _Got it, boss,_ " Bradbury said.

"I'll be back at the Quinjet in twenty," Phil said as he climbed into his car. "E-mail me as soon as you upload it to the server and I'll go through it on the computer in the jet."

" _I need an hour minimum to run the nationwide search and catalogue all the information,_ " Bradbury told him. " _So, feel free to stop for a coffee or something._ "

Phil snorted a laugh at that. "Just keep me updated with your progress." Then he hung up.

Phil made it back to the Quinjet in record time. Then all he could do was pace impatiently. He alternated between checking his watch and checking his phone, knowing this kind of thing took time but still anxious to get the information. He was usually pretty good at reading people, but he couldn't help but feel like he hadn't even scratched the surface with this kid. He hadn't encountered a puzzle like this in a long time.

In what he initially thought to be an impressive feat on the part of his techs, it was just under forty-five minutes when he got the ping on his phone signaling an e-mail from Bradbury. He immediately sat down at the computer station set just behind the copilot's seat in the Quinjet, logging onto his server and downloading the files that had been collected.

Finally, he pulled up the first file, smiling to himself as he finally had a name to put to this face.

"Clinton Francis Barton," Phil muttered to himself as he began glancing over the file, trying to get a feel for what information was there before he started delving in too deep. "So, what's your story?"

It immediately became obvious how the techs had been able to gather the information so quickly. There simply wasn't a lot of information to be gathered.

The first thing Phil really took noticed of was the kid's birthdate, printed on a scanned copy of his birth certificate. He didn't think too much of it until he saw the year. He almost missed it, but then he did the math quickly in his head. He had to do the math three more times before he actually believed it.

"Damn kid is _seventeen_?" he couldn't help but exclaim out loud, his eyes widening in shock. He had been so distracted by the kid joking about his age, he had mistaken the final lie for an admittance.

Fury was going to shit kittens when he found out that not only were his agents outgunned by a guy with a bow and arrow, but the kid was still a minor.

It took Phil several minutes until he was able to refocus on the information they had on Clinton Barton. He was born in Waverly, Iowa to Harold and Edith Barton, their second son after Charles Bernard Barton five years before. When he was six years old, the whole family had been in a car driven by his father when the vehicle had veered suddenly off the road, crashing into a tree. It was later revealed that despite the fact that it had been ten in the morning on a Tuesday, Harold Barton had been heavily intoxicated at the time of the accident. That fact alone told Phil a lot about what kind of person Harold Barton had been.

The collision killed both of Clinton's parents on impact and left him and his older brother recovering in the local children's hospital for several months. They had no relatives willing to take them in, so the two boys had been declared wards of the state and placed into the care of Iowa's Child Protective Services upon their release from the hospital. The two of them had been shipped between four different homes – two group homes, then to a foster family briefly before being placed in another group home – over the course of about three and a half years before both boys were reported as missing and then a short while later declared runaways. That was seven years ago when the younger Barton had been ten years old.

And that was basically it. The two brothers virtually fell off the map after that… until recently.

Phil scrolled to the last page of the document which had a summary of his criminal record. The first charge was a little over a year and a half ago when Barton was almost sixteen for breaking and entering and theft in Boston, Massachusetts. Charges had eventually been dropped and Barton had been placed in the care of a boys' home just outside of Boston… which he ran away from the very next day. After that he would resurface every few months, always in a large city – Detroit, Miami, Atlanta, Philadelphia… the kid got around – and always for a petty crime generally associated with homelessness. It was mostly small thefts and panhandling illegally, crimes small enough to only warrant an overnight stay in a holding cell. There were a few assault charges, though to be fair the assaults were all against men with worse criminal records than him, which was why charges were always dropped after a short stay in a holding cell.

Then, just two months ago, he was listed as a person of interest in connection with a series of murders in Chicago. Three people were found dead, all killed with an arrow to the chest. He was wanted for questioning but had apparently skipped town before the police were able to catch up with him. That didn't exactly scream innocence.

After taking all this in, Phil leaned back in his seat, pondering this information for a minute. The kid had led a hard life, that much was obvious. But he still felt like he was missing something. There were almost six whole years between the kid running away from the final boys' home until his first arrest. Where had he been all that time? What had changed that suddenly caused him to resurface in the past year and a half, seemingly unable to stay off police radar for any significant amount of time? Why, with the exception of his first arrest, had no one attempted to place this minor back in the care of Child Protective Services?

Why, after no significant charges, was this seventeen-year-old kid suddenly implicated in the murder of three people?

Something wasn't adding up. But that could be figured out later. For now, Phil had enough to justify bringing the kid in for further questioning. He packed up his things quickly, heading out of the Quinjet. He'd call Fury and update him once he had Barton in custody.

He was halfway back to the station before a thought occurred to him, a detail he had overlooked while distracted by the puzzle that was Clinton Francis Barton. While stopped at a red light, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the direct number for his tech.

"Bradbury, its Coulson again," he said. "Can you pull anything you can find on the older brother? Charles Bernard Barton."

" _Sure, boss_ ," Bradbury said and Phil could hear him typing away on his computer in the background. " _No problem._ "

"Send anything you find directly to me," Phil instructed. "And, also, get me any more info you can find on the younger Barton's recent criminal record."

" _Got it._ "

"Thanks," Phil said as he hung up.

It was odd that up until they ran away from the boy's home, the two Barton boys had been presented as practically a set in the records, never one without the other. But now that Clinton Barton had resurfaced after six years off the map, he seemed for all intents and purposes to be on his own.

The more he found out about this kid, the more questions he had.

* * *

 **Author's Note : **So…. Any good? Done to death? Terribly boring? I'd love to hear your thoughts! Constructive crit is always welcome! Please take a moment to leave a review!

* * *

 **Chapter Two Sneak Peak**

" _You interested in charity cases now, Phil?_ " Fury asked.

Phil rolled his eyes, running a hand over his face. "No, that's not what this is."

" _Then what is it?_ " Fury demanded.

Phil glanced back at where Barton sat. His eyelids were drooping and he seemed to be conscious through only sheer force of will. The kid had been through hell, that much was obvious. But Fury posed a fair question. What _was_ this about? Phil had to admit that even he wasn't completely sure yet. But there was this nagging feeling in his gut that said he shouldn't leave this kid here. It was a gut instinct that had served him well in the past, one that he was compelled not to ignore.

"I just… it's a feeling," Phil said vaguely.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much to everyone who has favorited and followed this story so far! And special shout outs to those who took the time to leave a review: **TheRedScreech** ; **XYZArtemis** ; **ELOSHAZZY** ; and **Devon Shea**! I really appreciate the feedback, especially since this is my first fanfic within this fandom! I've got a lot planned for this story, so I hope that you'll continue to follow along!

And now… we continue!

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

As soon as he stepped into the police station, he knew something was wrong. There was a flurry of activity and an air of tension that hadn't been there before.

Not wanting to have to go through his credentials in order to establish his authority again, Phil was relieved to spot the officer who had led him back into the jail earlier that day.

"What happened?" he demanded as he approached the man, forgoing any pleasantries.

"The kid... he's gone!" the officer said, running a hand through his hair.

"What?" Phil snapped. That was not at all what he had been expecting.

"We don't know how he did it," the man said, his eyes darting around as if the answer would somehow present itself. "I went back to check on him and the door to his cell was open and he was just... gone."

"Well _someone_ must have seen him," Phil said, thinking of the dozen people who had occupied the other cells.

But the officer was shaking his head. "Even the guys in the other cells didn't see anything. They're all spooked now, trying to claim he was some kind of violent ghost."

Phil had to concentrate very hard in order to resist smacking himself in the face in light of this total stupidity.

"Okay, but you must have surveillance," Phil tried, his tone strained as he tried very hard to keep his temper in check.

"System's been on the fritz for the past week," the officer said, shaking his head.

"You've got to be kidding me," Phil muttered to himself, running a hand over his face. He took a deep breath before he focused back on the officer. "Let me see his cell."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," the officer stuttered, clearly thrown off by this turn of events.

The was a moment's pause.

"Lead the way," Phil finally prompted, motioning toward the jail.

"Oh, yeah, right!"

As they entered the jail, Phil had to resist putting his hands to his ears in an attempt to block out the drone of noise. The people contained in the cells were yelling and banging on the bars, clearly on the verge of panic. There were several officers trying to calm them, but seemingly to no avail.

Apparently, the town as a whole was very superstitious.

Phil moved briskly past the commotion, heading down to where he knew the kid's cell to be. He stopped, observing the open door and the empty cell for a minute before turned by to the officer.

"No one has touched this?" he asked.

The officer shook his head. "We poked around the cell for a few minutes, but haven't touched anything. We're waiting on the chief to come in to check it out before we do anything."

Phil was already at the door, examining the lock. He could see distinct scratch marks next to the keyhole, like some had to slide something sharp around before he found it.

"Looks like he picked the lock," Phil informed him.

"Figured as much," the officer said with a nod. "The real mystery is how in the hell did he get out of here without anyone seeing him? There's only one way out of here." He motioned back down toward the door at the other end of the hallway. "That door was still most definitely locked, and even if it wasn't, he would have had to walk right by the other detainees."

"That's true," Phil admitted as he looked back up the way that the man was pointing. It was extremely unlikely the kid could have passed all those people without someone taking notice. He turned back and tried to focus on the scene, but it was difficult with the commotion that was going on at the other end of the hallway, echoing off the concrete walls. "Could you go try and calm them the hell down?" he snapped, starting to lose his patience. "Go tell them that a ghost doesn't need to pick a goddamn lock to get out of jail."

"Uh, yes sir," the officer said, and by the look on his face Phil had to seriously wonder if he had even had that thought himself.

Phil rolled his eyes as the officer quickly retreated back down the hallway. Then he turned and focused back on the issue at hand.

Experienced eyes carefully took in the area, looking for points of escape. The walls and floors were solid concrete. The ceiling was also solid, no moveable tiles. It was as if the kid had just evaporated into thin air.

"But he had to get out of that cell," Phil murmured to himself as he focused back on the open cell door.

Barton had taken the time to pick that lock to get out of the cell. How ever he had made his escape, he had to get out into this hallway. Phil looked around again, looking for any flaw in the seemingly solid surroundings.

That's when he saw it. There was an air vent in the empty cell diagonal from the one that Barton had occupied. The vent cover wasn't set quite right, as if someone had wedged it to appear as if it were still secured. As Phil entered the cell and got a closer look, he saw that was exactly what had happened. Barton must have unscrewed the face and then after he climbed through he had carefully positioned it to appear as if it were still firmly in place.

He paused to reflect on that for just a moment. The vent was small, even for the skinny teenager it had to have been a tight fit. In order to have positioned the vent cover, he had to have had his hands positioned at the entrance after he was already in the vent. And since there was clearly no room for him to turn, it meant that he had to have entered the vent – set high up near the ceiling – feet first, and then after setting the vent grate he had to have made his escape backward, at least until he found a cross vent to give him room to turn. All this without drawing any attention from the other detainees at the other end of the hall.

That was quite a feat to accomplish.

Phil was already striding back down the hallway when the officer was heading back toward him. They met in the middle, but Phil didn't break stride and the officer was forced to turn and follow him.

"Did you find something?" the officer asked, almost eagerly.

"He got out through the air vent in one of the empty cells," Phil said bluntly.

"What?" the officer asked in surprised. He paused to look back behind him and then had to hurry to catch up with Phil. "No… no way he coulda fit through there. Could he?"

"Yes, I believe a skin and bones seventeen-year-old kid who was motivated enough could fit through there," Phil snapped, his patience completely spent.

" _Seventeen_?" the officer echoed in shock.

"Where's his bow and quiver?" Phil demanded as he pushed his way back into the lobby.

"What?" the officer said, confused.

Phil whirled on him, his eyes blazing as his patience drained away. They _had_ him. And now he was in the wind again. And he had exactly zero shits left to give about this tiny police station in this insignificant town in the middle of Virginia.

"When you booked him, not bothering to take _any information_ from him by the way, you indicated that the only personal effects he had on him were a bow and quiver full of arrows," Phil practically growled. Even though he was several inches taller than him, the officer took a step back, looking a bit frightened at the sudden change in his demeanor. " _Where did you put it_?"

"Oh," the officer said. "We store personal effects through there." He pointed toward a door on the other side of the room.

Without another word, Phil stalked over to the door, trusting that the officer would be smart enough to follow. Not only did he figure out he should follow, but as they approached he took out his keyring in order to unlock the door without being asked. It was almost as if small town police officers weren't completely useless.

"It didn't fit in any of our bins, so we just put it in the corner over there," the officer told him as he flicked on the overhead light and pointing.

Even before he looked, Phil knew the bow and quiver wouldn't be there. There was no way that kid would leave behind what were quite possibly his only worldly possessions, especially when he suspected they provided him with essential protection in his travels. While the officer was busy gaping at the empty corner and muttering about how the door had been locked since they had brought in the group that had been fighting the night before, Phil was already searching the wall up by the ceiling.

Sure enough, there was an air vent. Barton hadn't been as careful with this one, having not bothered to prop up the grate. Seems he figured it wouldn't be discovered for a while.

Phil grabbed an unused bin and flipped it upside down, pushing it up against the wall under the vent. He stepped up onto the bin and was able to look up into space. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting to find. But the vent stretched on for a few feet before being swallowed into darkness.

He couldn't imagine Barton had hung around long after he had left. Which meant he was probably long gone.

"Damnit!" Phil snapped, banging his fist against the metal vent. He spun around and stepped back down to the floor. "Where does that let out?" he demanded, jerking a thumb back up toward the vent.

"I… I don't know," the officer stuttered, looking bewildered by the question.

"Of course you don't," Phil muttered mostly to himself as he stomped out of the room. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit his contact for Bradbury.

" _Agent Coulson, if you're already fishing for information on the brother twenty minutes after requesting it, I swear…_ " Bradbury said by way of greeting.

"No, it's not that," Phil promised as he stormed out of the station. He started looking up at the building, searching for a vent. "I need you to put priority on locating Clinton Barton."

" _I thought you had him?_ " Bradbury said, so perplexed that the sound of typing in the background paused. " _Wasn't he in jail?_ "

"He escaped," Phil said bluntly, his eyes still searching the top of the building. He started walking around the building, hoping to get some indication of the direction the kid took off in. "But now we've got a name and a photo. We should be able to track him down much more quickly this time."

" _Got it,_ " Bradbury said shortly as the clicking of his keyboard resumed.

"Keep running info on the brother too," Phil said. "Barton might go to him for help now that he knows someone's on his tail."

" _Not likely,_ " Bradbury said to Phil surprise. " _I'm not done gathering info on Charles Barton, but I do know where he is now. That much came up pretty easily._ "

"Where is he?" Phil asked, his interest piqued.

" _He enlisted in the Army about two years ago,_ " Bradbury told him. " _At the moment he's deployed on his second tour, currently stationed in the Philippines._ "

"Huh," Phil hummed. He wasn't sure why, but that truly surprised him. "Keep running the info anyway. I want as good of an idea of Barton's motives as we can get. Maybe something in his brother's history will help us fill in some missing pieces."

" _I'm on it, boss._ "

Phil hung up as he continued his trek around the building. Upon coming full circle back to the front of the building, Phil decided that the venting system must come out on the roof. He sighed. There was no easy way for him to get up there and, in any case, if the kid came out on the roof he could have easily picked any direction to go in.

"Damnit," Phil muttered to himself. He took another minute to gaze around, as if there were any chance at all he could catch a glimpse of the kid. But the area was deserted.

As he stood there, a thought finally occurred to him. A person didn't just decide on a whim to climb into an air vent and crawl their way out. This had been a well thought out escape. Phil strongly suspected that this was not the first time he had pulled something like this. But that thought did not overshadow one unavoidable fact.

Barton was officially in the wind. And Fury was going to have a shit fit.

He headed for the car as he dialed his phone again. He knew that there was no point in putting this off.

" _Fury,_ " Fury's clipped tone greeted.

"It's Coulson," Phil said as he climbed into the car.

" _Tell me you have some news, Phil,_ " Fury said.

"Yes," Phil confirmed as he started the car and sped back in the direction of the Quinjet. His eyes kept on sweeping his surroundings… just in case. "News is something that I do have."

" _Well?_ " Fury prompted. " _Let's hear it._ "

"I ID'd our mystery man," Phil told him. "His name is Clinton Barton. I found him in a jail cell in a small town in Virginia."

" _What's his story?_ " Fury demanded.

"It's extensive," Phil hedged, knowing full well he was very much stretching the truth. "I can have Bradbury send you the file."

" _Do that, but give me the highlights now,_ " Fury instructed.

"Barton is originally from Waverly, Iowa," he recited. "Both parents were killed in a car accident when he was six years old. Him and his older brother were left orphaned and placed in the care of Child Protective Services. After getting bounced around between a few different homes over the course of about four years, him and his brother disappeared from a boy's home in Iowa and were declared runaways shortly after that. Barton virtually fell off the map after that until about year and a half ago when he was arrested in Boston."

There was a short pause as Fury took in this information.

" _He fell off the map,_ " Fury said slowly, as if he were working out something in his head.

"Yes, sir," Phil confirmed.

" _Exactly how long was he off the map?_ " Fury asked, suddenly sounding suspicious, like he knew that Phil had deliberately left something out of the story.

Phil knew where Fury was going with that train of thought. He wasn't going to help him get there though if he didn't have to.

"About six years," Phil reported clinically.

Phil could practically hear the wheels in Fury's head turning as he did the math.

" _Phil… how old is this guy?_ " Fury finally asked bluntly, clearly not believing what those numbers were telling him.

"He's seventeen, sir," Phil said calmly.

There was another long pause.

" _Are you shitting me, Coulson?_ " Fury demanded.

"He's going to be eighteen in just a few months, if that helps," Phil offered.

He knew for a fact that Fury would roll his eyes at that.

" _Believe it or not, it does not,_ " he deadpanned. He took a deep breath. " _So, you're telling me that my agents were outshot by a_ kid _with a bow and arrow who's not yet old enough to vote. That about cover it?_ "

"Yes, sir, it does," Phil confirmed evenly.

" _Jesus, Phil,_ " Fury spat on a frustrated sigh. " _Tell me you're bringing this kid in. I'd like a conversation with him._ "

"Yes, I'm bringing him in," Phil said slowly. He paused for a moment before he plowed on. "As soon as I find him."

" _You_ lost _him?_ " Fury demanded in disbelief.

" _I_ did not," Phil clarified quickly. "He escaped from the jail while I was back at the Quinjet waiting on tech to run his prints. Technically, it was the crack team at the Arrington, Virginia police station who lost him." There was a pause. When Fury didn't say anything, Phil decided to continue. "I've already got Bradbury running a search for him. This time we've got everything on him: name, mugshot, down to his social security number. The second he uses his real name for something or steps in front of a security camera, we'll have him."

" _We better,_ " Fury said. " _I don't care what this kid's motivation is, as far as I'm concerned he is armed and highly dangerous and needs to be taken off the streets._ "

"That might be a bit extreme," Phil pointed out wearily. "He's just a kid."

" _A kid that ran at the first sign of a suit asking questions,_ " Fury pointed out. " _That doesn't exactly scream a clean conscious. He's obviously running from someone. Whether it's the good guys or the bad guys is still to be seen._ "

"I understand," Phil assured him. "We'll find him."

" _Let me know when you do._ "

* * *

"You wanna tell me the hell happened?" Phil demanded as he stormed into Fury's office.

Even though it was early – the sun just beginning to peak over the horizon through the window – the Director was fully clothed and already sitting behind his desk.

He regarded Phil with an air of annoyance, though at the same time he didn't look surprised to see him burst into his office like this. "Well, I assume you've heard about the team that tried to bring in Barton."

"Why wasn't I notified?" Phil asked angrily.

"We got the hit just after midnight," Fury said. "He walked in front of an ATM camera in Columbus, Ohio. It was our first hit since you ID'ed him in Virginia almost two weeks ago. We had to act fast and I had a team that was in the area. You weren't needed and couldn't have made it there in time anyway. I delegated to the field team who should have been able to handle it."

"But they didn't," Phil pointed out.

"And you think you could have done better?" Fury asked sharply.

"The kid was already spooked," Phil said. "You send in a strike team to bring him in, guns and handcuffs blazing, and really expected it to work out?"

"I sent three extremely well-trained agents who have brought in hostiles before," Fury said. "It should have been a cake walk to bring in a seventeen-year-old kid."

"And yet, all three of those agents are now in the infirmary," Phil snapped. "You're damn lucky none of them were killed."

"And what would you have done?" Fury asked angrily.

"I would have tried to reason with him," Phil said.

"Yeah, because he's seemed so goddamn reasonable so far," Fury said sarcastically.

"I've already told Bradbury that any other hits on Barton are to be reported directly to me," Phil asserted.

Fury raised his eyebrows at that. "And suddenly you have that authority?"

"Nick, your way didn't work," Phil said as he leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk, making an effort to soften his tone and trying to sound more diplomatic. "So how about we try it my way this next go around?"

Fury glared for a moment before he nodded. They may butt heads on certain issues, but when it came down to it, Phil and Fury trusted each other.

"Fine," he allowed. "But I'm officially labeling him a hostile force."

"Seems fair," Phil agreed with a curt nod, knowing that was a battle he wasn't going to win, given the circumstance. He turned to leave, but paused when Fury spoke again.

"Did you hear that he didn't fire one arrow at my agents?"

Phil turned back, surprised. He hadn't stuck around for the details after Bradbury had given him the overview of the attempt. "I didn't."

"I'm told he used the bow as a staff before one of the agents knocked it away… but for the most part he took down all three agents with his bare hands." There was a pause, as if Fury expected Phil to respond. He didn't. Fury sighed to himself. "I'm telling you this because I don't care what you think of this _kid_ … he's dangerous. And he should be treated as such."

"Understood, sir."

* * *

Phil was awoken in the middle of the night by his cell phone going off. He was instantly up and reaching for the phone, having not been sleeping soundly anyway.

"Tell me you have some good news," he said by way of greeting, already climbing out of bed in anticipation.

" _I do,_ " came Bradbury's triumphant voice. " _We found him._ "

"I'll be there in five minutes," Phil said as he was throwing on whatever clothes he could find in the near vicinity.

He was hurrying down the hallway toward the lab, reflecting on what a shit couple weeks it had been. It had been over three weeks since Phil's original encounter with the kid in Virginia. It had been almost eight days since Barton had encountered and subdued three highly trained SHEILD agents. Since then it had been radio silence. There had been exactly no more hits on that kid. He must have been being careful, knowing someone was looking for him.

Insight into his brother hadn't been any help either. Charles Barton had dropped off the map at the same time as his younger brother. He had reappeared briefly about three years ago when he had earned his GED in the state of Oklahoma. Then there had been nothing on him again until he joined the Army about two years ago. Phil had a call in to the military, hoping for a chance to speak with Charles Barton, but he was told that the elder Barton was currently out in the field and unreachable at the present time.

Phil strode into the computer lab, spotting Bradbury immediately. The man was sipping coffee from an insulated to-go cup – with a mug, another to-go cup and two empty cans of Redbull also crowding his desk – with one leg bouncing with coiled energy.

"Where is he?" Phil demanded as he approached.

"Detroit," Bradbury said without looking at him, hitting some keys on his keyboard to bring up a file.

"How close can you pin point his location?" Phil asked before he even began to read the file.

"I can tell you his exact cell number," Bradbury said matter-of-factly. "He was picked up with a couple known gang members earlier today." He glanced at his watch. "Or yesterday, rather. Seems there was some kind of disturbance. The whole group was booked into the Detroit Detention Center."

"What kind of disturbance?" Phil questioned.

"It was a fight," Bradbury told him. "Local police broke it up and arrested everyone who didn't take off, found a bunch of illegal drugs and unregistered weapons."

"And he didn't take off?" Phil said skeptically. After all, three SHIELD agents weren't able to bring him in… but these random Detroit cops were able to?

"Not for lack of effort," Bradbury informed him. "According to the report, he knocked two cops out cold who tried to arrest him and tried to run. But a cop just arriving on the scene managed to take him down with a taser."

"Is he being charged?" Phil asked.

"He's getting an assault charge as well as resisting arrest," Bradbury said. "But they're working on transferring him to Chicago to be questioned about that murder case he's be implicated in. These smaller charges probably won't be pursued."

"Does it say when he's being transferred?"

"No," Bradbury said, shaking his head. "They're still working on it. Stands to reason it'll take a few days to set it up though."

Phil nodded. He knew that if Barton was planning another escape, while he was on the move would be his best chance. Phil had to make sure he got to him first. He checked his watch. It was approaching three in the morning.

"I need a jet prepped in the next hour," Phil told him. "Get me a private meeting with Barton at the Detention Center for 7 a.m. sharp. And make sure surveillance is conveniently down in the room while I talk to him."

"Got it, boss," Bradbury said, already typing away on his computer.

"In the meantime, have him moved to isolation immediately," Phil said even as he was turning and heading out of the room. "We're not taking any chances this time."

* * *

To the outside world, Phil was the picture of patience. He sat at the metal table in the middle of the large cafeteria-like visiting room in the middle of the Detroit Detention Center, his hands calmly folded on the table in front of him, his features passive as he waited. He didn't fidget, didn't check his watch, didn't sigh to himself.

Inside he was wound so tightly he felt like he was about to snap. He had gotten here early, and it had taken extra time for the guards to sort through the complicated paperwork that allowed him unprecedented access outside of visiting hours. And when they finally lead him to the room and told him that they'd fetch Barton, he could have sworn that time slowed down. He knew that the isolation wing probably wasn't close by, but it still seemed to take an excessive amount of time.

Finally, at long last, the door at the other end of the room buzzed and then slid open.

The first thing that Phil really took notice of was the aggression that was coming in waves off of the guard that was accompanying Barton. Everything about the man was screaming Alpha Male, from the way that he gripped Barton's forearm while his hands were cuffed behind him and pushed him along in front of him to the hard set of his features, as if he were dealing with a hardened serial killer rather than a seventeen-year-old kid who had yet to be convicted of anything.

That was Phil's first red flag that something was wrong here.

The next thing that Phil noticed was that Barton was in worse shape than he had been in the last time he had seen him. Evidence of the altercation from the day before were obvious, from the black eye and split lip, to the stiff way that he was moving, probably an after effect of the taser. But more than that, he couldn't help but notice how painfully thin the teenager was. It had been something that had been hard to really take notice of when he had been wearing jeans and a baggy sweatshirt back in Virginia. But in his standard issue, short sleeve prison jumpsuit, it was hard to ignore.

As the guard led Barton into the room, Barton's eyes were darting around with a mixture of confusion and trepidation. Obviously, he hadn't been told what was going on. But as he was led over to where Phil sat, the kid's eyes finally landed on him. There was just a split second of surprise in his eyes before they dulled to a carefully blanked expression.

"You've got to be shitting me," Barton murmured as they approached, shooting a glare at Phil in order to make it clear that the statement had been intended to be heard.

"Sit here," the guard ordered, jerking Barton's arm and forcing him down into the seat across from Phil before Barton had a chance to do so by his own volition.

Phil frowned at that. It was a classic power play to push around someone who couldn't fight back like that. Clearly, Barton had pissed this guy off somehow.

"The handcuffs aren't necessary," Phil pointed out when the guard made no move to unlock them.

"I'm going to have to insist, Mr. Coulson," the guard replied stiffly. "This one's been nothing but trouble since he got here." Barton rolled his eyes at that, something that the guard clearly saw and scowled at. The man tensed, one hand twitching as if he were going to strike Barton, but then his eyes flicked to Phil and he seemed to think better of it. "Camera's up there," he went on, signaling. "Just give it a wave when you're done and we'll come collect him."

For the next minute, the only noise was the guard's retreating footsteps echoing through the empty room. Then there was the sound of the door opening and then closing again. It was only then that Phil allowed an easy smile to cross his lips. This only gained a scowl from the teenager sitting across from him.

"So… we meet again, Mr. Einstein," he said conversationally. "You know, I regret not telling you to hang around back in Virginia. I wasn't done speaking with you."

"Seemed pretty done to me," Barton said, shrugging one shoulder, unconcerned.

"Well, that's my bad then," Phil said easily. "So, why don't we start over. My name is Phil Coulson. And yours is Clinton Francis Barton."

Something dark flashed behind Barton's eyes when Phil stated his full name. It wasn't surprise, the kid had to know that Phil had run his prints and gotten his name. It was something else, something that was almost… menacing.

"And what do you want from me, Phillip Barnabas Coulson?" Barton shot back lowly with a small smirk.

Phil raised an eyebrow at that. The kid was clearly trying to knock him off balance, but Phil didn't get thrown off that easily. Barton seemed to read that in him as the smirk quickly fell off his face as Phil pretended to carefully contemplate the name.

"Barnabas," he said slowly, as if testing out the name. "I like it. Perhaps I'll make it a permeant change."

Barton sighed heavily, and with that it seemed all the fight drained out of him. It was startling how quickly he went from growling wolf to kicked puppy.

"Look, not that this isn't a ton of fun, knowing someone is stalking me across half the country," he said, exhaustion suddenly clear in his tone, "but could we possibly stop dicking around and just get to the point? Apparently, you have my undivided attention." He shifted his hands behind him, deliberately clinking the metal of the handcuffs together in order to underline that point.

"Okay," Phil agreed. He reached down and began rummaging in a bag by his feet. "I won't bullshit you if you don't bullshit me. Deal?"

"Yeah, sure," Barton said without enthusiasm, shrugging both shoulders.

Phil took out a photograph and placed it on the table. He flipped it around and slid it over so that Barton could see it.

"Do you know him?" he asked bluntly.

"Not personally," Barton replied immediately with only a cursory glance at the photo. "Just know of him."

"Alright," Phil said, leaning back in his seat and fixing Barton with a critical gaze. "What do you know of him?"

"He was the head of a national drug ring based out of New York City," Barton said shortly.

"That's right," Phil said with a nod. "He _was_. Until you took him out with an arrow to the chest." Barton was careful to keep his features blank, simply staring at Phil. "Isn't that right?" he prompted after a moment.

Barton deliberately flicked his eyes up toward the camera mounted in the corner of the room before settling his cool gaze back on Phil.

"Come on," he said lowly. "I'm not _that_ stupid."

Phil followed his gaze, unconcerned. He knew that Bradbury had hacked into the system. He would have taken out the audio and while the guards struggled to figure out why they didn't have any sound, they wouldn't realize until it was too late that none of this meeting was being recorded. In fact, any video at all of Phil within this facility would be conveniently corrupted. That wasn't something he needed to explain to the kid in front of him though.

"Fair enough," he allowed, focusing back on the teen, deciding to change tactics. "But as far as I'm concerned, I'm not looking for the guy who killed the head of a drug ring. I'm looking for the guy who saved the lives of two of my agents in the middle of a mission that was quickly going south."

Barton didn't appear particularly comforted by that. "So, who are you guys, anyway? CIA or something?" There was a long pause as Phil debated how honest to be with this kid. "C'mon, Coulson," he pressed with a smirk. "No bullshitting, remember? That goes both ways."

He had a point.

"I work for a branch of the United States government called the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division," Phil said briskly.

Barton stared blankly. "Never heard of it."

"No, you wouldn't have," Phil explained patiently. "We are primarily a covert operation. Knowledge of the organization's existence is strictly need to know."

"Huh," Barton hummed. He didn't seem to really know what to do with that information.

"We are an extra-governmental, military counter-terrorism and intelligence agency, tasked with maintaining global security," Phil went on. "We are made up of the best of the best. The best techs, the best soldiers, engineers, equipment… you get the idea."

He looked to Barton for some kind of response. It took the kid a moment to catch on.

"Uh-huh," Barton grunted vaguely, still clearly struggling to grasp what all this meant.

"Our mission is to be the best in the world," Phil said, deciding to get to the point. "And then _you_ came along and made two of my agents look like a couple drunk rednecks on a weekend hunting trip."

Barton shorted derisively at that. "Trust me, they made themselves look like that without any help from me. I was perfectly content to let them take the guy out. Then, as it turned out, they couldn't hit the broad side of a barn, so I decided to pull their asses out of the fire before I had even more bodies on my hands."

"Why were you after Bates in the first place?" Phil asked, leaning forward slightly.

"Was that his name?" Barton said. Phil just arched an eyebrow. "I was working off a photograph. The guys who worked for this guy were flooding the streets of Brooklyn with their drugs. The place was a shit show. Even kids were getting their hands on the stuff with their goddamn lunch money. I was passing through and figured I might help clean up a bit. You wanna lock me up for the rest of my life for that, be my fucking guest."

It was Phil's turn to blink blankly. It wasn't exactly what he had been expecting. "So… on a whim you just decided to take out the leader of one of the most notorious drug cartels in the country?"

Barton shrugged a shoulder. "Guess you could put it that way. I tracked him down, but it seems like you guys got there first. I figured the job was done until I saw what a holy mess of it your boys made. I spotted the guy escaping from his safehouse and tracked him up to that rooftop."

"So… do you do this a lot?" Phil asked slowly.

There was a long pause in which Barton seemed to have an internal debate on how to respond. Phil knew it was a loaded question, especially since he thought they were being monitored. When he finally spoke, it was a slow, contemplative tone, as if he were carefully thinking about each word before he said it.

"In my travels, if I come across a way to help out some good people, I've been known to lend a hand."

"Is that how you ended up in here?"

Barton frowned at that memory. "That gang had grabbed a couple girls that were out walking. I wasn't about to just let that happen. The girls got away. Me? Not so much. Eight on one isn't good odds no matter how you slice it. And the cops apparently just decided it was best to arrest first and ask questions…" He blinked as he seemed to realize something. "Well, never actually. You're the first to ask what actually happened."

"I'm told that you knocked two police officers out cold when they were trying to arrest you," Phil said, careful not to sound accusing. "And injured two more while you were here."

"Yeah, well, the first two came up behind me, I honestly didn't know if it was cops or more gangbangers. And the second two yanked me out of bed while I was sleeping… they didn't tell me they were just takin' me to isolation. Sometimes instinct just kind of takes over, you know?"

"Those are some pretty strong instincts," Phil observed. Barton simply shrugged noncommittedly. "Is that what happened with the three agents that caught up with you in Columbus as well?"

Barton raised his eyebrows. "They were with you too?" Phil nodded. "Well, they never said that. Just said that I was to come with them and tried to cuff me without any other explanation."

"And if they had said they were with me, would it have made a difference?" Phil asked.

"No," Barton answered immediately.

Phil nodded, respecting the kid for his honesty.

They lapsed into an awkward pause as Phil look a moment to try and analyze this kid. He seemed to be a walking contradiction, going after a drug cartel to help people he didn't know, but also brutally attacking anyone who got too close to him without question. So, did that make him one of the good guys or one of the bad guys?

Barton shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, but didn't break eye contact, staring hard right back at him.

"So, are we done then?" Barton finally prompted, his voice hard. "You get what you needed?"

"Can I ask you about one more thing?" Phil asked.

Barton sighed wearily. "Make it quick. I've got a breakfast reservation at a fancy restaurant to get to." He rolled his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable from having his hands still cuffed behind his back.

"What happened in Chicago?" Phil asked, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table in front of him.

Barton rolled his eyes and scoffed at that. "Not like you'd believe me if I told you," he muttered.

"Try me."

It was Barton's turn to size up the man who sat across from him. He suddenly looked as if he were struggling to piece together a puzzle, as if Phil were just as much the conundrum to him as Barton was to Phil.

Phil met his gaze evenly, willing him to see that he was here to help him. Despite everything, he really did want to give this kid the benefit of the doubt. Even if he couldn't put into words as to why just yet.

"Fine," Barton finally relented. "The official story is that three people were found dead with arrows in the chests, right?"

"Right," Phil confirmed what Barton obviously already knew.

"So, the crack team of cops get an anonymous tip along with a _convenient_ photograph of a guy with a bow and arrow fleeing the scene. Suddenly my damn picture is not only up on the news but also posted on fucking telephone poles like this is the wild goddamn west. But here's the thing," he leaned forward and met Phil's eyes, "I guarantee that if anyone would take eight seconds to really look at those bodies they'd realize something. They weren't killed by the arrows. All three were shot with regular, everyday bullets and then the arrows were placed after the fact. So yeah, I was fleeing the scene. I was fleeing the scene because I was trying not to get fucking shot. Somebody hiding in one of those abandoned buildings was using the street as a goddamn shooting gallery."

There was a long pause as Phil contemplated this.

"Look, believe me or don't, I don't care," Barton finally snapped, glaring as he straightened. "Are we done here?"

"Just about," Phil assured him. He dug in his pocket for a moment and produced a cell phone. "I'm going to make a quick call. Just sit tight for a minute."

He didn't wait for Barton to respond as he stood and retreated to a secluded corner of the room, out of earshot as he dialed Fury's number.

" _Fury_."

"It's Coulson."

" _Been expecting you_ ," Fury told him knowingly. " _I got the update from Bradbury. You see the kid yet?_ "

"Yeah, I just got done talking to him," Phil told him.

" _You get his story from that night?_ " Fury asked.

"I did," Phil confirmed.

" _Good_ ," Fury said. " _Go ahead and head back to base. You can debrief and we can finally put this to bed for now. I've also got another assignment to put you on._ "

"Sir…" Phil said slowly. He glanced over his shoulder. Barton was now hunched over the table, staring blankly down at the tabletop. He looked like he had the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. "What about Barton? Didn't you want to bring him in?"

" _He's out of our hands for now,_ " Fury said briskly. " _We'll_ _let the locals handle him. We'll put him on the watch list and keep an eye on the situation to see how the charges against him shake out. If he gets convicted, we might not have to bother with him. Unless you think he should be put on the threat list?_ "

"No, he's definitely not a serious threat to us," Phil immediately assured.

" _Well, good then_ ," Fury said as if the matter were settled. " _We'll let his trial work itself out and we'll decide what to do from there._ "

Phil was already shaking his head, even though Fury couldn't see him. "No. I want to bring him in now."

" _What?_ " Fury demanded.

"Barton is not the villain here," Phil said. "He's a runaway kid who was dealt a bad hand and who's actually trying to do some good in the world."

" _Yeah, his growing criminal record surely proves that,_ " Fury pointed out sarcastically.

"And that's exactly what a judge is going to think, too," Phil practically hissed. "The kid's got no chance in the system, they're going to take one look at his file and then they're going to lock him away without a second thought."

" _You interested in charity cases now, Phil?_ " Fury asked.

Phil rolled his eyes, running a hand over his face. "No, that's not what this is."

" _Then what is it?_ " Fury demanded.

Phil glanced back at where Barton sat. His eyelids were drooping and he seemed to be conscious through only sheer force of will. The kid had been through hell, that much was obvious. But Fury posed a fair question. What _was_ this about? Phil had to admit that even he wasn't completely sure yet. But there was this nagging feeling in his gut that said he shouldn't leave this kid here. It was a gut instinct that had served him well in the past, one that he was compelled not to ignore.

"I just… it's a feeling," Phil said vaguely. "I can't leave this kid here. He's only been here a few hours and he's got both the inmates and the guards turned against him. And they're not going to put him back in the isolation cell after I leave, he's going to get dumped back in gen pop. They're going to eat him alive if he goes back in there."

" _Well, at least we know he's good at making friends,_ " Fury said dryly.

"With all due respect, sir, I think it says something about him that he's _not_ interested in making friends in prison," Phil pointed out, knowing full well that he was grasping at straws.

" _Okay, so you want to bring him in… and then do what?_ " Fury said, sounding annoyed but at least he seemed to be entertaining the idea.

"Prove that he was not to blame for the murders in Chicago," Phil said. "If he gets sent to Chicago to be tried, any judge and jury is going to be prejudiced, given his history. I can clear his name and he will be safer with us than he will be in prison." There was a long pause. "It'll take a couple days, tops," he added hopefully.

Finally, Fury sighed in resignation.

" _Fine,_ " he said. " _You want to bring home a stray puppy, that's your call. But if he takes a piss on the carpet, it's gonna be on you._ "

"Understood," Phil said with a smile.

" _When you get here, deliver him directly to the detention wing, and then come see me,_ " Fury instructed firmly. " _I want to talk more about this_ feeling _you have._ "

"Will do, sir," Phil agreed. "Thank you."

He hung up the phone feeling an inexplicable amount of relief. He wasn't sure what it was about this kid… but his instincts had never led him wrong before. He could only hope that this wouldn't turn out to be the exception to that rule.

XxXxX

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thanks so much for reading! If you would be so kind as to drop a review with your thoughts, I would very much appreciate it!

* * *

 **Chapter Three Sneak Peak**

As Phil eased the Quinjet into the hanger, he took note of the number of people milling about. In fact, what really drew his attention was the number of armed agents that were gathered near where he was meant to park the jet.

He supposed he should have expected it. Fury was protective of what he had built here.

As he shut down the jet, he saw Barton leaning forward, clearly taking notice of the agents who were dropping into formation around the jet. He looked over at Phil, cocking a curious eyebrow.

"It's standard protocol for bringing in a hostile force," Phil hedged.

Both eyebrows went straight up at that. "Hostile force?" he echoed, more surprised than anything. "You feel threatened by me, Mr. Coulson?" There was a bit of a smirk in his tone.

"Nope," Phil said as he stood. "But I did pick you up in prison. Not to mention, I think you hurt the Director's feelings when you beat the shit out of his highly trained agents a few weeks ago." Barton simply rolled his eyes at that. "C'mon, let's go."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Annnnddd I'm back! Thank you to those who have favorited and followed this story so far! I'm so glad so many seem to be enjoying this, because I'm seriously obsessed with writing it! And, of course, shout outs to those who took the time to leave a review, you guys are unapologetically my favorites! **Jokerdino10** ; **LisaG16** ; **theflyingpenguin** ; **XYZArtemis** and **TheRedScreech** , you all are the best!

And without further ado… onward and upward!

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

"You know that I could open this door, tuck and roll, and get the hell out of here, right?"

Phil shot Barton an annoyed look. "You're not going to do that," he informed him calmly, returning his eyes to the road as the light turned green.

In the end, Phil only had to make two phone calls before he was able to transfer Barton into SHIELD custody directly from the visitor's room of the Detroit Detention Center. The resources at their disposal certainly made things a lot easier. He was still under arrest, so handcuffs during transport had been an unavoidable necessity. When Phil had switched him from the prison's handcuffs to his own, he had been disturbed to find dark bruises circling both wrists of this seventeen-year-old kid. Not only did that speak of how tight the cuffs had been, but how long they had been on. There was no way those bruises had appeared during their short conversation. At the very least, Phil figured the cuffs had to have been on for the couple hours Barton had spent in isolation.

Barton leaned back in the passenger's seat of the car, his cuffed hands resting in his lap.

"Why not?" he inquired.

"Because, I am trying to help you," Phil said.

"Really?" Barton said skeptically, lifting his hands and letting the cuffs rattle. "Because it sure feels a lot like I'm just trading one prison for another."

"This is only temporary," Phil assured him. "Just until I can prove what actually happened in Chicago."

There was a short pause.

"Why?" Barton suddenly demanded. "Why do you care what actually happened? Why does the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division care about some street kid being sent up for something he didn't do?"

Phil slowed to a stop at another red light and then turned his head in order to blink at the kid in surprise. SHIELD's full and proper name was a mouthful, no one in the organization had any illusions about that. He had told Barton the full name of the organization exactly one time, and he had said it quickly to get through the lengthy name. And yet, this kid had just rattled the name back to him as if he had been staying it in casual conversation for years. There hadn't even been the slightest hesitation when he had said it, as if he hadn't even had to think about it.

"We call the division SHIELD for short," Phil told him. "But that's impressive you remembered all that." Barton simply shrugged. When he didn't seem inclined to comment, Phil went on. "Just think of it as a favor. You saved two of my agents. This is what I'm doing for you in return."

It wasn't really true. He still couldn't put in to words why exactly he was doing all this for some random kid. But he figured the simplified explanation would satisfy Barton for now and help him to accept the situation for the time being. And it seemed to work. Barton leaned back in his seat and propped one foot up on the dashboard, seemingly contented by the black and white logic.

Considering how exhausted the kid looked, Phil had expected him to nod off on the drive from the prison out to the secluded airstrip outside the city. But he didn't. Though his posture appeared relaxed, every time he glanced over at him he saw that Barton's eyes were in constant motion, always taking in the changing surroundings.

He was starting to get the sense that there was more to this kid than met the eye.

They pulled up by the airstrip where Phil had left the Quinjet. As they came to a stop, Barton reached out and opened his own door. Phil kept a close eye on him as they both climbed out. He didn't get the feeling that Barton was looking for an out, but still if he lost this kid he knew that there would be hell to pay.

"Fancy," Barton commented as he observed the jet.

"Exactly what we were going for," Phil said dryly as he moved to the back of the car. He popped the trunk in order to grab not only his bag, but the bag of Barton's belongings – which consisted of only the clothes that he had been wearing at the time of his arrest. "Hold these, please."

"Dude, I'm handcuffed," Barton said, glancing at the two outstretched bags and arching an eyebrow. "Now, if you want to take the cuffs off…" A small smirk quirked his lips as he lifted both wrists slightly in offering.

Phil rolled his eyes. "I think you can figure it out, tough guy."

Barton was turning away again as Phil tossed the first bag across the space between them, fully expecting it to hit the kid and then fall to the ground. But, at the last possible second, Barton's hands shot out together, snatching the bag out of the air without pausing in his turn. He didn't even seem to look at the bag as it came at him.

It was a small thing. But all these seemingly trivial things seemed to be adding up to form a picture that Phil hadn't been expecting. Rattling off a long, complicated name after only hearing it one time a few hours ago. Putting on the front of looking relaxed even though he seemed to be cataloguing every aspect of his surroundings. Showing impressive reflexes even while handcuffed.

Shooting a bow and arrow with absolute deadly accuracy.

He watched the kid carefully as he tossed the second bag at him. Barton turned only his upper body, holding the first bag in one hand and reaching out with his empty hand as much as he was able to with the restricting handcuffs. As he did so, his eyes were still on the jet… and yet he still managed to flawlessly make the catch before turning fully away again.

This kid was something else entirely.

"You're sure that's all you have?" Phil asked, not for the first time. The bag of the kid's personal effects consisted only of the clothes that had been on his back at the time of his arrest. "You know we could go get anything else you might need."

Barton shrugged, unconcerned and not even sparing him a glance. "What more would I need?"

"Well, most human beings have things like a change of clothes, wallet and ID, that sort of thing," Phil pointed out. He waited for a response. When he didn't get one, he went on. "So, no ID? Driver's license? Library card?"

"Nope," Barton said shortly.

That seemed unlikely. At the very least Phil figured the kid would have to have a fake ID. It was difficult to function in society without one. But he decided not to press the issue for now.

"So, why a bow and arrow?" Phil asked conversationally as he turned and grabbed those items out of his trunk. Barton had been adamant about not leaving those particular items behind, even more so than he had been about his clothes. He had even insisted on watching Phil put both in the trunk of the car to be sure they wouldn't get left behind.

Barton shrugged one shoulder, still not bothering to turn. "I like it."

"Believe it or not, I deduced that much," Phil said dryly as he approached.

"Need me to carry those too?" Barton asked casually with a sly smile.

"Tell you what, I'll handle the weapons since I'm not the one currently under arrest."

"Kill joy."

"Shall we?" Phil prompted, motioning toward the jet.

"Like I have much of a choice," Clint mumbled with a sigh.

Phil decided not to respond to that as he led the way to the jet. As the two of them headed up the ramp, Phil took notice of the way that while Clint kept his head still and pointed carefully straight ahead, his eyes were still moving, cataloguing his surroundings.

"You can drop those there," Phil instructed, motioning to one side of the jet. He had to resist the urge to roll his eyes as Barton took the term ' _drop_ ' quite literally, unceremoniously dropping the bags on the floor with barely a glance. "I need you to sit here." He pointed at a bench that ran the length of one side of the jet.

Barton eyed the spot skeptically and then sent a look up toward where the cockpit was.

"Why can't I sit up there?" he asked, inclining his head.

"The location of our compound is confidential," Phil told him. "I can't have you seeing even which direction we're going in."

A ripple of tension flowed through the kid's muscles, so much so that Phil felt his senses sharpening, unsure if Barton was about to go on the aggressive. Though it seemed like a strange reaction considering Barton had been so compliant with everything up to this point.

"So, you don't have a blindfold or something?" Barton asserted.

"Barton, officially you are still under arrest here and are still considered a hostile until I can prove otherwise," Phil reminded him. "I'm on your side, but I need you secured so that I can focus on taking off."

Barton snorted at that. "Yeah, everyone on my side always treats me as guilty until proven innocent," he muttered sarcastically, mostly to himself.

"This is a deal breaker, kid," Phil said, starting to lose his patience. "You can ride back here back to headquarters and let me work on clearing your name. Or, I can load you back into the car and take you right back to lock up and you can take your chances in the system with a public defender. Decision is all yours."

Phil watched the kid subtly eye the ramp, knowing full well that he was contemplating running. But then his gaze was drawn back to Phil, and more specifically the bow and quiver that he still held. Phil could almost see the thought process working through Barton's head. He clearly wasn't leaving the bow behind, so he was trying to figure out if he could take Phil while he was handcuffed.

"Word to the wise," Phil said with a smirk. "I'm scrappier than I look."

"I'm sure the gun in your shoulder harness and the knife strapped to your back help with that," Barton said.

Phil had to work not to show his surprise. He had been careful not to show either of those items to this kid, not wanting him to know that while he was trying to help him he was also armed… just in case. His jacket should have easily hidden both of those items.

"I don't have all day, Barton," Phil said, meeting the kid's gaze with a steely look of his own. "What's it gonna be?"

"Fine," Barton finally agreed flatly as he moved over to the bench. "But, for the record, I'm still not convinced this isn't some kind of elaborate kidnapping stunt."

"Noted," Phil said.

He was careful to place the bow and quiver far out of reach before he crossed over to where Barton sat. He pulled another pair of handcuffs from his pocket. He snapped one side closed over the middle of the handcuffs Barton was wearing. Then he moved the other side to a bar that ran behind the bench and closed it. Barton would have room to move side to side, but that was it.

"Really?" Barton muttered, jerking his head toward the awkward positioning of his hands and glaring.

"There should be room on the other side of the bench for your leg, so you can sit sideways," Phil told him as he turned and crossed back to where the bow and quiver sat. He hit a button on the wall to close the ramp before picking up the weapons. "Sit tight. I'll be back as soon as we're in the air and I can engage the auto-pilot."

Without waiting for a response, Phil headed into the cockpit with the weapons, closing the door firmly behind him. It was only when the door closed behind him that he allowed himself a relieved breath. He leaned back against the door for a moment, closing his eyes and just allowing the weight of the situation to fall on him for just a moment.

There was every chance that he was completely wrong about this kid. There was every chance that this entire situation was going to blow up in his face. If he brought this kid in and it turned out that all the charges against him are true…

He shook his head as if he could forcibly shake away those thoughts as he refocused on the task at hand.

He stored away the kid's bow and quiver in the weapons locker behind the pilot's seat and locked it before finally climbing into the seat and starting up the jet. He let the takeoff process take over his brain. He couldn't dwell on what might happen, all he could do was deal with the situation as it was. And what he had to do right now was get Barton to the SHIELD base and then they could go from there.

Phil was so used to flying the Quinjet that the time seemed to pass all too quickly. It seemed to take no time at all to get the jet in the air and then he was setting the path for the auto-pilot. He actually ended up seting the auto-pilot twice. The first time was a direct path back to base, but then on a whim he decided to change it to a more roundabout path that would change the direction they approached the SHIELD base from. He figured there was no harm in being cautious.

Finally, there was nothing left to do but check on the cargo.

In retrospect, he realized that he really shouldn't have been surprised as he headed back into the back of the jet to find Clint Barton standing on the opposite side of the jet than where he had left him. A glance back at the bench showed that the handcuffs were still hanging from the bar where Phil had locked them. He supposed it was reasonable to assume that since he had been able to pick the lock on that cell back in the jail in Virginia, he could slip a standard set of handcuffs.

He was starting to think that he probably should have brought backup to help handle this kid…

He eyed the bins that Barton was standing in front of, visually making sure they were all still locked. There were extra weapons and ammo in there in case of emergency. Thankfully, they all appeared undisturbed, and when Barton followed his gaze to the bins, the curious look told Phil that he hadn't given them any thought before that moment.

Which begged the question… what he had been doing back here all this time?

Before he had a chance to say anything, the jet jerked suddenly as it hit a patch of turbulence. Phil was so used to this kind of thing, he might not have really registered it if it hadn't been to Barton's reaction. The kid wildly threw out a hand to stabilize himself, his gaze darting around as if looking for some kind of threat.

"It's just a little turbulence," Phil tried to assure the kid, noting the way that his gaze snapped back to him just as he finished the statement, just a brief glimpse of panic in his eyes before it melted away to a look that seemed a little too indifferent to be natural. Something about that bugged at the back of his mind. Something about this was very… off. Suddenly, a thought occurred to Phil. "Kid… you ever been on a plane before?"

There was a pause, as if Barton was considering something carefully.

"No," he said finally said shortly.

"Sorry," Phil said, a note of sincerity in his voice. Flying was such a normal part of his own life that he often forgot that it wasn't for everyone. "I didn't realize."

Barton merely shrugged in response.

"We're still a couple hours out," Phil went on, unmoving from the doorway to the cockpit. "Care to sit down at least?"

"I'd rather stand," Barton said stiffly.

"Okay," Phil said slowly, trying to figure out if this was considered an aggressive demand. But for all the world he didn't seem like he was taking an offensive stance. If anything, he just seemed too on edge to sit down. "I'll make you a deal. We'll forget about the cuffs for now if you go back over there." He tilted his head, indicating the side of the jet that Barton had started out on, away from the weapons bins. "You can even stay standing as long as you don't wander. Deal?"

Barton seemed honestly taken aback by the offer for a solid minute, as if he couldn't figure out how to even respond. Phil supposed that the offer probably seemed odd after he had been so vehement about retraining him before takeoff.

"Fine," Barton finally said.

A beat after the agreement, he carefully moved back across the jet, seeming to watch Phil the whole time. Phil couldn't help but wonder how he had lost so much ground so quickly, so much so that Barton suddenly felt like he couldn't look away from him even for a moment. He didn't comment though, just quietly watched him move back across the jet. Barton reached the bench he had started off on and turned to square his shoulders, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Happy?" he asked, shortly.

"Overjoyed," Phil deadpanned as he too crossed his arms over his chest and then leaned one shoulder up against the doorway to the cockpit.

Barton narrowed his eyes, suddenly inexplicably angry at Phil's response.

"So, you just gonna stare at me for the next couple hours?" Barton snapped with a glare.

Phil merely looking at him coolly, outwardly unaffected by the sudden change.

"I'm not leaving you by yourself back here," he said calmly. "So, unless you want to talk…" He shrugged, letting the kid infer on his own.

"Talk about what?" Barton asked, still angry but also seeming a bit perplexed.

Phil paused, thinking that over for a moment. He did have a burning question… now seemed as good a time as any.

"I was looking over your history," Phil started. He could see the way that Barton immediately tensed at that. He hesitated ever so slightly before going on. "There was quite a bit of unaccounted for time in your records. Looks like you pretty much dropped off the map for a good six years while you were a kid." Phil paused, waiting for some kind of response or at least a reaction to the statement. Barton gave neither. "Any chance you could enlighten me as to where you were all that time?" he finally prompted without much hope that he actually would.

Barton shrugged one shoulder. "We were around," he said vaguely.

"We?" Phil said, raising an eyebrow.

Barton hesitated, clearly regretting his choice of words.

"I'm not the first kid to run from the foster care system," he pointed out quickly.

"Like you and your brother," Phil said evenly.

This gained another hard glare from the teen.

"Yeah, and I guess you had a nice, normal childhood with two loving parents and a white picket fence, huh," Barton sneered. "And you just _couldn't imagine_ why anyone would want to run away from home."

"I never said that," Phil pointed out calmly.

"You didn't have to," Barton shot back. "You've got that ' _no childhood emotional damage_ ' look to you."

"So, you consider your childhood emotionally damaging?" Phil asked.

"Well, it wasn't warm and fuzzy, I'll tell you that," Barton muttered almost as if he were talking to himself, his eyes darkening at the thought.

"Why do you say that?" Phil asked patiently, daring for just a moment to hope that maybe the kid was about to open up to him.

No such luck.

"Why bother, you know everything there is to know about Clinton Francis Barton, don't you, Phillip," Barton spat.

Phil heaved a sigh. Clearly the amount of information that he knew about Barton was still a sore spot.

"Well, you don't want me to just stand and stare at you," Phil said, "you don't want to talk… so, what do you propose for the next couple hours?"

Barton seemed to consider this carefully for a moment. Then he sighed heavily, allowing his shoulders to sag as he abruptly but carefully lowered himself to sit on the floor of the jet.

"I'm gonna take a nap," he announced flatly as he leaned his head back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. "If you're planning on killing me, just do me a favor and wake me up first. I'd like to at least see the bullet coming."

"If I were planning on killing you, I would have done it by now," Phil pointed out.

Barton didn't respond, his eyes remaining closed. It was only a few minutes later when Phil saw the kid's muscles finally relax and his head lull to one side as he finally drifted off to sleep.

He couldn't deny that he felt a little relieved. The kid had looked exhausted. And judging by how tense he had been during their conversation, Phil figured that the exhaustion had to run deep in order to take him so quickly.

Phil carefully perched himself on the small step up to the cockpit and settled himself in for what was hopefully going to be a quiet flight.

* * *

"Barton?"

Still no movement, not even a twitch. It was the fourth time Phil had called his name, getting progressively closer to the sleeping teen each time. He was now standing right next to the kid.

Apparently, he was a heavy sleeper.

It was about time for Phil to start the landing procedures, but he was weary of leaving Barton back here unattended and unrestrained. If the kid had really never been on any kind of aircraft before, then him waking to the sensation of the jet bumping into the ground might be a bit startling. And he really wasn't sure how the kid would react.

He had to keep reminding himself that he really didn't know much about this kid at all.

Knowing that he really needed to get going on the landing procedure, Phil reached out with his foot and gently tapped the bottom of the kid's sneaker.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Barton's eyes flew open as he gasped, whipping his head up and to one side. Unfortunately, the movement brought his head in solid contact with the edge of the metal bench he had been sleeping next to with a sharp, metallic _CRACK_.

"Ah, shit!" Barton spat, his hand immediately going to put pressure on the side of his forehead as he sat up, his eyes looking around wildly. "What the _fuck_?"

"Sorry about that," Phil said, feeling a pang of guilt but choosing not to show it. He had tried several times to wake the kid after all. "But it's almost time to land." He paused, cocking his head, unable to help himself. "You're not bleeding, are you?"

Suddenly, Barton's darting eyes focused in on Phil. He had a strange look on his face, one that Phil couldn't quite identify. Anger? Confusion? Surprise?

"What?" he finally said, still sounding a bit breathless.

Phil raised his eyebrows, assuming that the kid hadn't been paying attention in the moment. "I said, you're not bleeding, are you?" He pointed to his own head to help Barton get what he was asking. Clearly the kid was still a little disoriented. Is wasn't possible he had just given himself a concussion… was it?

Barton pulled his hand away from his head, scowling down at it even as it was revealed there was no blood.

"You'll have a nasty bump, but no real harm done," Phil informed him, eyeing where he could already see a painful looking welt forming. He took a step back, drawing Barton's eyes back to him. "It's time to land. I need you secured."

Barton's scowl deepened. "You're not seriously gonna leave me locked back here again."

Phil paused to consider that for a moment. After all, the kid had already gotten out of the handcuffs once. He suspected that unless he took more drastic measures with his restraints, it wouldn't do much good.

"How about a compromise," Phil said suddenly, coming to a decision in the moment. "If you let me put the cuffs back on, I'll let you sit up front for the landing." There wasn't much that he would see at this point that wouldn't tell him something that he wouldn't figure out when they landed and unloaded him, not to mention the flight plan Phil had set earlier to bring them in from a less direct direction.

Barton seemed honestly perplexed for a moment at the offer.

"You were very against that idea before," Barton pointed out slowly, almost suspiciously.

"Well, there's not much to see at this point," Phil said, shrugging one shoulder. There was a pause. "Yes or no, Barton, because I've got to land this thing and if it's a 'no' then I have to get more creative."

"Yes, fine," Barton snapped as he started to pull himself up using the bench next to him.

Phil moved automatically, putting out a hand with the intention of helping the struggling kid up to his feet. The gesture did not go over well though as Barton glared and waved him off.

"Dude, give me some space here," Barton growled.

"Just trying to help," Phil muttered as he backed up, holding his hands up in a mockingly defensive manner.

As Barton worked on balancing himself out, Phil went to where the handcuffs still hung from the pipe behind the bench. He grabbed the key out of his pocket and unlocked them. As he turned to Barton he was relieved that despite him glaring daggers at him, the kid held out his hands without complaint. Though Phil still winced inwardly as he saw that the bruises around the kid's wrists were darker than they had been before.

He was mindful of not notching the cuffs too tight. It went against all his instincts… not only did he spring this kid from prison, but he was going to have him in loose handcuffs and sitting up in the copilot's seat while he piloted the Quinjet in for a landing at the top-secret SHIELD base. Phil could almost hear Fury's voice in his head… _Do you have a damn death wish, Phil?_

"Alright, let's go," Phil said shortly as he turned and lead the way back into the cockpit. "You sit there," he pointed at the copilot's seat as he took the pilot's seat. "You touch anything and I'm gonna put you down, no questions, no second chances. Understand?"

Barton didn't even look at him as he maneuvered himself into his seat, eyeballing the equipment in front of him with a hungry look that made Phil uneasy.

"You hear me, Barton?" Phil said sharply.

"What?" Barton said as his eyes snapped over to look at him.

"Don't touch anything," Phil repeated, a hard look in his eye.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Barton said, rolling his eyes as he leaned back in his seat.

Phil eyed him wearily before grabbing his headset. There was no turning back now. As he went through getting clearance to land and starting the procedure, he kept glancing at the kid out of the corner of his eye. Barton was still leaning back, but everything else about him was tense, there was a sharp focus to him that was taking in everything that was going on around him. He seemed especially interested in the controls that Phil was working with, his eyes darting to him every time he reached for a new one.

As Phil eased the Quinjet into the hanger, he took note of the number of people milling about. In fact, what really drew his attention was the number of armed agents that were gathered near where he was meant to park the jet.

He supposed he should have expected it. Fury was protective of what he had built here.

As he shut down the jet, he saw Barton leaning forward, clearly taking notice of the agents who were dropping into formation around the jet. He looked over at Phil, cocking a curious eyebrow.

"It's standard protocol for bringing in a hostile force," Phil hedged.

Both eyebrows went straight up at that. "Hostile force?" he echoed, more surprised than anything. "You feel threatened by me, Mr. Coulson?" There was a bit of a smirk in his tone.

"Nope," Phil said as he stood. "But I did pick you up in prison. Not to mention, I think you hurt the Director's feelings when you beat the shit out of his highly trained agents a few weeks ago." Barton simply rolled his eyes at that. "C'mon, let's go."

"What about my bow?" Barton said, his eyes darting around the cockpit.

"I have it locked up," Phil said, shifting his head toward the weapons locker that was behind the pilot's seat. "I'll come back for it later." Barton looked about ready to argue that when Phil continued. "It'll be simpler if there aren't any extra weapons around for this next part."

Barton pressed his lips together, as if he had to physically restrain himself from pressing the issue. Finally, he nodded curtly, though he looked reluctant.

It took Barton an extra minute to struggle out of the copilot's seat with his hands cuffed, swaying unsteadily a few times before he managed to properly balance himself. Phil knew better than to offer help again, but at the same time he couldn't help but worry about a possible concussion, either from hitting his head earlier or the beatings he clearly had taken before Phil got to him. He resolved to get him checked out in the infirmary just to be on the safe side, but knew he would have to deal with Fury first.

He led the way back into the cargo hold, but paused at the controls for the ramp as something dawned on him. He turned back to Barton.

"I need to fix your cuffs," he said.

Barton glanced down at his cuffed hands in front of him then looked back at him, confused. "What's wrong with them?"

"I need to cuff you behind your back," Phil explained.

Barton let out an exasperated sigh that sounded more tired than anything else. "Really?"

"If I don't, then they will," Phil said, jerking his head toward the ramp and the armed agents that were undoubtedly gathered just beyond, waiting for them. "And I'm gonna be nicer about it."

Barton rolled his eyes but after a pause he held out his wrists. Phil fished the key out of his pocket so that he could unlock one cuff. Barton obediently turned and put both hands behind him so that Phil could lock them in place. Grudgingly, he locked them to the property tightness over Barton's already bruised wrists. To his credit, the kid didn't even flinch.

"Remind me how this is helping me again?" Barton said sarcastically as he turned back to face the ramp.

"At this point, you just have to trust me," Phil said, as he moved back over to the ramp controls.

"I don't trust anybody."

It was said softly just as the gears for the ramp groaned to life, almost lost to the noise. Phil gave him a strange look. The statement wasn't said with arrogance… but rather said almost as a quiet reminder to himself and not for anyone else's benefit.

There was no time to dwell on that though. Barton's eyes were steely as he watched the ramp lower down into the hanger. Phil saw the way that his back stiffened and his shoulders squared at the sight of the half a dozen SHIELD agents, all with guns held loosely in front of them, that were waiting for them at the bottom of the ramp.

Taking a deep breath, Phil reached out and took Barton's arm – noticing the way that he tensed under his grasp – and led the kid down into the hanger.

"This seems a bit excessive," Phil commented casually as they approached the agents.

"Fury wanted to be cautious, given the charges against him," the man in the lead said stiffly. "If you hand him over, we will escort him down to the detention wing. Fury is waiting for you in his office."

Barton shot him a look. It was a fast look, one that Phil almost missed. But even without the look, Phil was already resolving not to surrender Barton over to these guys. He had asked this kid to trust him and he was determined to prove to him that he was a man of his word.

And he knew that despite everything, people were flawed. SHIELD agents weren't exempt from that law of nature. And Barton had seriously injured three SHIELD agents just a few weeks ago. He couldn't be sure that none of these guys had connections to those other agents and would be looking for their own form of retribution. And Phil wasn't going to risk that when he had just pulled the kid out of a similar situation.

"I'll be escorting Barton down to the detention wing myself," he said firmly, already beginning to lead Barton away. "If you gentlemen feel the need to follow us, that's up to you."

It took all his will power not to roll his eyes as half a dozen armed men fell into step behind him.

It was a tense and quiet walk down to the detention wing of the SHIELD base. Barton, to his credit, kept his gaze stoically straight ahead of him, never glancing back at the processional behind them. As they finally made it down to the holding cells, the guards were ready for them. After scanning him into the hall that contained the cells, Phil was allowed to escort Barton himself. As instructed by the guards, he took him to the end of the secured hall, where they were remotely buzzed into the last cell in the row.

Barton entered the cell immediately. Phil stood in the doorway and watched him as he surveyed the room, seeming mostly interested in studying the blank walls, turning in a slow circle as he did so.

"Here, let me get those," Phil finally said stepping more fully into the cell.

Barton shot him a confused look before Phil held up the key and motioned to his handcuffs. He seemed vaguely surprised, but turned so that Phil could take the cuffs. It was all the confirmation that Phil needed that he had been left in handcuffs when the guards at the Detroit Detention Center had put him in isolation.

"I've got a meeting with Director Fury," Phil told him as he pocketed the handcuffs. "I'll be back afterward and we can go over what next steps will be. Try to get some rest in the meantime." Barton made no effort to respond, the look on his face hard and unreadable. Phil turned to leave before something dawned on him. He turned halfway back, glancing at Barton over his shoulder. "When was the last time you ate?" he asked.

Barton looked taken aback by the question, almost as if he had just been asked something deeply personal.

"Huh?" he finally said.

"When was the last time you had something to eat," Phil repeated calmly.

"Um…" Barton hedged, seeming to strain to figure out the answer. That told Phil exactly what he needed to know.

"I'll have someone bring you some breakfast," Phil said conversationally. Then he glanced down at his watch. "Or lunch, rather. Do you have any preference?"

Barton looked suddenly dumbfounded. After a moment, he slowly shook his head.

Phil paused, taking a real good look at the kid before he turned walked out of the cell, closing the door behind him and listening to automatic lock click into place. As he walked back down the hall, he couldn't help but keep thinking back to look on the kid's face. And he couldn't help but wonder if Barton had ever been offered the kindness of someone asking him what he wanted for lunch.

He shook that off though, knowing that he needed to focus on the next task at hand. He had a feeling that this wasn't going to be a pleasant meeting with Fury. Especially given what he was just now realizing he actually wanted to ask of the Director. It had all come together without him really thinking much of it. But everything he had observed from Barton so far – his hyper observation skills, escape skills with the handcuffs and the jail cell in Virginia, reflexes, the aim he had displayed that night in New York, and most importantly the desire to help people – had brought him to this unavoidable conclusion.

He wanted to recruit Clint Barton into SHIELD

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Okay, collective gasp from the audience. Whaaaat? Phil Coulson wants to recruit Clint Barton into SHIELD? Who would have ever seen that coming!? Haha, please bear with me, we've got some stuff to get through before we can get to the really good stuff. But it's coming… I promise! Pretty please leave me a review and let me know what you think so far!

* * *

 **Chapter Four Sneak Peak**

"Phil… what is it about this kid?"

"I… I can't put it into words," Phil admitted, frowning. And that was the truth. He had made the decision to bring him in before he had all the facts needed to make the decision about recruitment. There was just something about this kid…

"That's not like you," Fury said, sounding puzzled.

"I know," Phil sighed, feeling frustrated. He ran a hand through his hair before he took a deep breath and then continued. "But that's irrelevant for the moment. The fact of the matter is that the kid is here now and I'm officially invested. Just give me a couple days to work out what really happened in Chicago. I can get this kid off my conscious and we can go from there."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** I am so pumped by how many of your guys are enjoying this story! It means a lot to have you guys following along and it's definitely my motivation for working so hard on this story! Now we've probably got about two more weeks before I catch up with what I had pre-written (though I have a lot of the later, exciting scenes written, we still have to build up to those!) so I'll make you a deal… I'll keep writing and you keep reading!

As always, special shout outs to my favorites! **TheRedScreech** ; **XYZArtemis** ; **Hatter5151** ; **ELOSHAZZY** ; **theflyingpenguin** ; **forsakenfoxshadow** ; **LisaG16** ; **Jokerdino10**! I very much enjoy reading your thoughts on the story so far! You guys are the best!

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

Phil knocked on the door to Fury's office and then settled himself to wait. If he knew anything about the Director, he knew that he had royally pissed off the man by ignoring orders and complicating what he viewed to be an uncomplicated situation.

And that meant that he was going to make Phil wait.

It was a tactic that was used to put a person on edge and establish who was really in charge. It was a power play that Fury rarely pulled on Phil Coulson. But there was no surprise this was an exception. And if Phil hadn't been absolutely sure that he was doing the right thing, it might have rattled him. But as it stood, it simply gave him more time to plan out his strategy.

He had decided on the walk up here that he was going to take this one step at a time. He knew that Fury wouldn't even begin to humor his request to recruit Clint Barton until he could prove that he had not committed three murders of innocent civilians in Chicago. He wouldn't even breech the topic of recruitment today if he could help it. His one goal in this particular meeting was to get Fury to allow Barton to remain here while Phil looked into the case and proved his innocence.

In the meantime, Phil could also build his case for Barton's recruitment. If all went well, after he presented his evidence to Barton's innocence, he'd also be able to present his pitch to recruit the kid.

There were still a few bumps to work through – like how he was going get Fury to allow the seventeen-year-old kid to stay here until he was eighteen and could legally be recruited – but overall he felt like this could work.

Finally, he heard Fury's voice from within.

"Come in."

Phil opened the door and strode into the office, his head held high and an easy look on his features. Fury was standing with his back to the door, gazing out the window. Phil stopped several paces from him, centered his weight over his feet as he folded his arms comfortably behind him and waited to be acknowledged.

"I watched your approach through the surveillance," Fury said without turning around. Phil was surprised, this was not where he had expected this conversation to start. But he waited quietly for Fury to make his point. "It's funny, maybe we should have our equipment checked. Because it looked remarkably like you had a dangerous hostile sitting up in the copilot's seat with his hands cuffed in front of him."

"Well… it sounds like the surveillance is working exceptionally well actually," Phil commented, more than a little impressed that Fury had been able to tell where Barton's hands had been cuffed.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking, Phil?" Fury demanded, finally turning to face him.

"Barton isn't some hardened criminal," Phil said patiently. "He's just a kid who's made some well-intentioned but misguided choices. He's no threat to us."

"Did you forget about the three highly trained SHIELD agents he put in the infirmary with essentially his bare hands," Fury countered. "Not to mention, he's a suspect in the murder of three people at seventeen years old. That sounds pretty damn threatening to me."

"He didn't commit those murders," Phil said simply.

"And how do you know that?" Fury asked.

"He told me."

Fury seemed honestly taken aback for a moment by the simplicity of the explanation.

"And you believe him?" he asked skeptically.

"I do," Phil said firmly.

Fury sighed heavily, waving a hand vaguely at Phil. "Well then, state your case."

Phil took a small but steadying breath.

"First of all, I believe the very fact that this kid saved two of our agents at great risk to himself should gain him some semblance of the benefit of the doubt," he said evenly. As Fury opened his mouth to counter, Phil quickly went on, already knowing what he was going to say. "I know what happened with the three SHEILD agents who tried to arrest him in Columbus… but that was on us. I watched the footage from the vest cams before they went out in the fight. The agents made no attempt to identify themselves and immediately tried to take Barton by force. _We_ went on the offensive and he reacted. We really can't fault him for that, the kid obviously doesn't know who he can trust. Fighting back was a natural instinct and you can't deny that you or I would have reacted the same way in that kind of situation. Not to mention, after the agents were incapacitated, he didn't finish the job. He took off. That point alone points to self-preservation, not aggression."

Fury paused for a moment, considering that before he grudgingly nodded for Phil to continue.

"So, I went into that meeting with him with an open mind. I listened to what he had to say, and it all added up to a person who is trying to do some good in this world. He seemed to have a complex against bullies, and he all but admitted that he travels around and tries to help people out wherever he happens to be." He paused as he met Fury's gaze. "I've dealt with a lot of villains in my time here. And while I sat there, listening to what Barton had to say, I didn't see a villain. I truly and honestly saw a kid who is just lost and looking for something to give him purpose in life."

Fury was quiet for a long moment.

"So, what exactly are you looking for here, Phil?" he asked, his tone decidedly less hard, though he sounded vaguely suspicious. "Why were you so intent on bringing him here?"

"If nothing else, don't you think we owe him one?" Phil said, a hint of pleading in his voice. "No matter how you look at it, if not for him Johnson and Geller would probably be dead and Bates would be in the wind."

There was a heavy pause as Fury considered this.

"So, this is just about repaying a debt?" Fury asked, sounding unconvinced.

"In a way," Phil hedged, knowing that wasn't the whole truth. If it had only been about that, he would have left him in prison while he worked out what really happened in Chicago. This was about something more and he could tell that Fury knew that as well. He decided to try to redirect the conversation. "Aren't you at least a little intrigued about this kid though? You said so yourself that you wanted to have a conversation with him."

"I did," Fury allowed, undeterred. "But that was before I knew about the murder charges, which you so conveniently left out of your initial overview about the kid. You know that we don't interfere with local law enforcement if we don't have to." He paused, looking Phil up and down. "Phil… what is it about this kid?"

"I… I can't put it into words," Phil admitted, frowning. And that was the truth. He had made the decision to bring him in before he had all the facts needed to make the decision about recruitment. There was just something about this kid…

"That's not like you," Fury said, sounding puzzled.

"I know," Phil sighed, feeling frustrated. He ran a hand through his hair before he took a deep breath and then continued. "But that's irrelevant for the moment. The fact of the matter is that the kid is here now and I'm officially invested. Just give me a couple days to work out what really happened in Chicago. I can get this kid off my conscience and we can go from there."

Fury paused, contemplating carefully for a minute.

"I will give you three days to sort out this kid's shit and get him the hell off of my base," Fury finally allowed. "This is not a daycare and I don't have the time or resources for babysitting minors here."

"Understood, sir," Phil acknowledged, knowing full well it was best to take this as a win for now. Once he cleared the kid's name, then they could have the next conversation.

"Seventy-two hours, Phil," Fury reiterated. He tapped his watch for emphasis. "Starting now. You're on the clock."

"Shouldn't be a problem, sir," Phil assured.

"Well then… get going," Fury said, as if that fact should have been obvious.

Phil nodded before he turned and strode out of the room.

He felt that had gone as well as he could have hoped for. He headed right for the tech lab after that, getting Bradbury on the task of identifying the murder victims in the case that Barton was implicated in. pulling any surveillance he could find from the area around the crime scene, and also getting him a meeting at the morgue in Chicago with the team that had done the autopsies. After that, he stopped for some lunch of his own before he headed back to the detention wing. It had been several hours since he had left Barton there, and he hoped that the kid had gotten some sleep. Despite the nap on the Quinjet, the kid had still looked exhausted.

As he was buzzed into the cell, he immediately spotted Barton sitting on the floor in the corner of the cell. That seemed odd to him, considering there was a perfectly good cot in the room. He quickly decided not to dwell on it though.

"Did you get some food?" Phil asked. Barton merely silently motioned to the empty plate that sat on a tray just off to his left. Phil nodded, satisfied. "Okay. Come on then."

Barton just looked at him blankly for a moment.

"What?" he finally asked.

"Come on," Phil repeated, motioning for Barton to follow him. "I want to get you checked out in the infirmary. That was a nasty bump you took to the head on the jet, not to mention the injuries you had before that. I just want to make sure everything's still where it's supposed to be."

For a moment, Barton looked like he was about to argue, but then he seemed to think better of it. He probably figured any reason to get out of the cell was probably a good one.

He heavily pushed himself to his feet, and in the weary way that he held himself, Phil honestly had to wonder if the kid had gotten any sleep in the past couple hours. Barton took a couple steps forward but as he approached, Phil put out a hand to stop him. Barton paused, sending him a confused look.

"Sorry," Phil said as he took the handcuffs from his pockets. "Protocol."

Barton sighed heavily and Phil could have sworn he heard some particularly foul language muttered under his breath as he turned and put his hands behind him. Phil carefully tightened the handcuff, trying his best to find a middle ground between proper tightness and obvious looseness. The kid's wrists were looking awfully abused, but he knew he'd get called out taking him through the base if he wasn't properly restrained.

The two were silent as Phil signed Barton out of the detention wing and led him back through the base. The kid's gaze was sharp as they made their way through the halls, and Phil could almost see him mentally mapping their route.

As they entered the infirmary, Phil found that there was a flurry of activity. A team must have just come back from a mission. Phil wasn't fazed as this was fairly normal for the infirmary, but as he entered the main area it took him a moment longer than it should have to realize that Barton was no longer next to him. He glanced back to find that Barton had paused in the doorway, his gaze darting around to all the activity in the room.

"Look alive, Barton, or you're going to get in the way," Phil said as he fell back and took Barton's arm to lead him into the ward.

He led the kid to the back of the infirmary where there were private rooms, which Phil knew would be their best bet of avoiding prying eyes and getting him reported for bringing a "hostile" into the infirmary. It didn't take long to find an empty room as most of the activity was happening out in the main room.

"Wait here," Phil instructed firmly as he waved Barton into the room.

Barton simply rolled his eyes as he silently stalked into the room and Phil took that as close to consent as was going to get as he turned and pulled the door closed. He paused just outside the door, suddenly wishing he could lock it. But he was too far into this to turn back now. What was done was done and all he could do was hope this kid didn't make him regret it.

Phil took a steadying breath as he headed back to the intake desk he had bypassed on the way in, smiling at the nurse as he approached.

"Which doctors are on duty today?" he asked politely.

The nurse shuffled through some papers on her desk. "On the floor today we've got Dr. Grant, Dr. Reavis and Dr. Wylds."

Phil frowned, glancing around and spotting each man working as she named them off.

"Is that it?" he pressed.

The nurse raised her eyebrows, obviously unsure why Phil was being picky. Usually when people turned up in the infirmary they simply took whoever was available. She glanced behind her as if to catalogue who else was around.

"Dr. Hendricks is here, but she's still pretty new and is mostly just shadowing the other doctors right now," she said.

"She?" Phil asked, cocking a surprised eyebrow. It was the first time he had heard of a female doctor working in this particular infirmary.

The nurse nodded. "Just hired a few weeks ago."

Phil nodded his thanks as he turned from the desk to survey the ward again. He didn't have to ask the nurse to point out the newcomer as he quickly spotted the only female in the room to be sporting a lab coat. He made a beeline for the woman.

"Dr. Hendricks?" Phil asked as he approached.

The woman straightened from placing an IV on a patient. She was about Phil's height, which wasn't terribly tall, with dirty blonde hair that was pulled back into a tight ponytail. She was on the younger side for a doctor, probably late twenties, and couldn't have been out of medical school for more than a couple years. Despite her height and obvious younger age for this type of work, she had a sharp look to her brown eyes, one that said that she was already getting tired of being tossed all the grunt work on the wing.

"Yeah?" she said with an air of impatience.

"I'm Agent Phil Coulson, I don't believe we've met yet," he said with a smile, hoping to put her at ease. He reached out a hand.

Dr. Hendricks looked a little surprised, but didn't hesitate to reach out and firmly shake his hand.

"Dr. Jacqueline Hendricks," she said. "Nice to meet you, Agent Coulson."

"Likewise," Phil said.

"Now, considering I've been here for three weeks and not one agent has made a point to come down here to meet me just for kicks, I'm going to guess that you need something from me," she said, getting straight to the point as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her lab coat.

"Ah, yes I do," Phil admitted, sounding a little guilty. "I've got a patient I was hoping you could take a look at."

Hendricks raised an eyebrow at that. "You run that by any of my superiors?" she asked suspiciously. "Because they seem to be under the impression I'm not up to handling my own patients yet." There was just a hint of sharp bitterness in her tone.

"This actually isn't an official patient," Phil told her. He paused, debating how best to describe the situation. "He's not an agent. Actually, he's currently being housed in the detention wing while I sort out a complicated situation. Strictly speaking, I'm not actually supposed to have him up here. But he was in a fight recently and also got a pretty good bump on his head, so I was hoping you could do me the quick favor of just looking him over and making sure he's alright."

"Ah," Hendricks said. "And if I might ask… why _me_?"

"No one is recruited here without a reason," Phil said reasonably. "You can't have been out of medical school for long. That means you've made quite an impression in a very short amount of time. And I would think that having you place IVs all day is probably boring you out of your mind. I thought I might help you while you help me."

It was half the truth anyway. He didn't feel inclined to mention the other half of it just yet.

"Well… okay then," she finally said, and her tone told him that she knew he wasn't telling her everything, but she was too intrigued to worry about it for the moment. "Lead the way, Agent Coulson."

"Thank you," Phil said.

He turned and led her to the room where he had left Barton. He decided that it was a small miracle to find that the kid was still standing in the room, leaning up against the far wall and watching the door with a sour look on his face. Not only that, but he still had the handcuffs on. Phil couldn't help but feel relieved as Barton had clearly decided to play ball… at least for now.

"Clint Barton, this is Dr. Jacqueline Hendricks," Phil introduced. "She'll be your doctor today."

Barton's only response was to deepen his frown as he looked over the newcomer.

" _This_ is the patient you want me to look over?" Hendricks asked skeptically. "What is he, sixteen?"

"Seventeen," Barton snapped.

Hendricks looked to Phil, clearly looking for an explanation.

"It's complicated," was all Phil said.

"I would imagine," Hendricks agreed. To her credit though, she took the vague response in stride. "So, are you just looking for an injury check?"

"Actually, I was thinking a basic physical while he's here, if you've got the time," Phil said.

"Oh, I've got the time," Hendricks assured with a hint of relief. Clearly, she was glad to have something a little more challenging for a change. She glanced at him. "You'll need to take those handcuffs off though."

"I am morally obligated to tell you that he's officially considered a hostile force," Phil said reluctantly. He didn't miss the way that Barton rolled his eyes at that.

Hendrick's looked over at Barton, sizing him up for a moment before turning back to Phil.

"I'm going to go ahead and assume that if you actually believed he was a hostile force, you wouldn't have been stupid enough to bring him up here," she stated. "And if you _are_ stupid enough to bring a dangerous criminal up here, I'm already an accomplice just standing in here with both of you. So, we might as well just go ahead and do this, don't you think?"

Phil couldn't help but smile at that. "Sounds like a plan," he agreed as he reached behind him and pulled the door to the room firmly shut.

He moved over to where Barton stood, who was already turning so that he could unlock the cuffs. As he pocketed the handcuffs, he waited until Barton turned back around to face him, meeting his gaze with a serious expression.

"Don't make me regret this," he warned in a low voice.

Barton put both his hands up in a placating gesture. Phil took that for what it was: as close as he was going to get to a promise to behave. He then retreated to the door, turning and standing in front of it, both to keep anyone else from coming in and also to block the only exit just in case Barton did decide to try and pull an escape.

For a minute, the room was silent as Barton and Hendricks eyed each other, seeming to be sizing the other up. Finally, Hendricks broke the silence.

"You want to sit down," she said, motioning toward the padded exam table on one side of the room. She said it offhandedly, obviously said more out of habit than anything else.

"I'd rather not," Barton said flatly.

Hendricks cocked an eyebrow at him, seeming to have to pause and process what he was saying. Phil guessed that the simple request had never been denied to her before.

"Kind of difficult to do a checkup if you don't sit," she said mildly as she quickly collected herself. When Barton didn't say anything, she went on. "Okay, so then how do you usually handle your doctor visits?"

"Haven't had one in a while," Barton said shortly.

Hendricks looked honestly taken aback for a moment. "How long is a while?" she asked, sounding a bit suspicious.

There was a long pause as Barton's eyes rolled toward the ceiling, as if he were calculating something complex in his head.

"I dunno," he said with a shrug as he focused back on Hendricks. "I had one maybe nine, ten years ago."

Phil couldn't say he was surprised since had hadn't found any medical records in the information they had found on Barton, but for the first time Hendricks looked a bit rattled.

"Um… _one_?" Hendricks stuttered. Barton gave one curt nod. "Oookkkaayyy," she said, stretching out the word as she seemed to compose her features. "Well, here's a tip: it's easier to do this if you sit on the table."

Barton tensed at that, and Phil stiffened, weary of the reaction. But instead of moving, he went strangely still, almost unnaturally so. It was almost as if he were waiting for something, but what that was, Phil had no idea. There was a heavy silence in the room, and to her credit Hendricks didn't push the situation, instead she merely crossed her arms over her chest and waited for Barton to make a move.

Abruptly, Barton's expression shifted. The hard look melted into one of confusion. Like something he had expected to happen hadn't. His eyes flashed from Hendricks to the exam table and then back, almost as if he were calculating something.

Finally, he moved. He crossed the room and hopped up on the table, though he stayed near the edge. Phil let out a quiet but relieved sigh.

"Okay, just a couple standard questions to start," Hendricks said getting down to business. "I'm going to go ahead and assume you're not up to date on vaccinations?" Barton simply shrugged impassively. Hendricks nodded. "Alright then. Do you smoke?"

"No," Barton said flatly.

"Drink alcohol?" Hendricks asked.

"No," Barton said.

"Barton," Phil spoke up, causing both Barton and Hendricks to look over at him in surprise. "You're not going to get in trouble here. You need to be honest."

Barton glared at him. "I _was_ being honest."

"C'mon, kid," Phil implored. "When I first met you, you were in jail because of a bar fight, remember? And that wasn't the only bar fight on your record."

Barton's gaze darkened at that. "Turns out, it's not a requirement to drink alcohol in order to get into a bar fight," he snapped

"Agent Coulson," Hendricks said patiently. "Why don't you let me worry about the doctor stuff?"

Phil nodded, though he still wasn't convinced the kid was being completely truthful. "Sure, sorry," he said.

As Hendricks continued with the standard questions for a physical, with Barton answering flatly, Phil remained a silent observer.

"Okay," Hendricks said as she finished with her questions and briskly started forward. Phil noticed the way that Barton shrank back a little as she approached quickly. Hendricks hesitated slightly, looking at Barton critically before sending a glance over at Phil. Then she was back to business, turning and opening a nearby drawer. "We'll start the physical with blood pressure."

"Whoa!" Barton practically yelped, flinching away and coming half off the table as Hendricks was moving toward him with the blood pressure cuff.

At the reaction, Phil tensed and took a half step forward… but quickly realized that Barton was taking a defensive stance, and not an offensive one. He forced himself to step back and allow Hendricks to handle the situation.

Hendricks paused, looking confused and a little startled. "You've never had your blood pressure taken?" she asked. Barton just gave her a blank look. "Okay," she said, seeming to resolve herself. "I get it, this is all new to you. We'll take this slow then, okay?" She held up the blood pressure cuff. "This is a blood pressure cuff. It goes around your bicep and I pump this part," she demonstrated, "and the cuff squeezes your arm and measures your blood flow."

Phil couldn't help but admire how quickly she had adapted to the situation.

Barton blinked. "Why?"

Hendricks seemed honestly surprised by the question. Phil couldn't blame her, he hadn't been expecting that either. She composed herself quickly though.

"It's how we check to make sure your heart and arteries are all healthy," she told him.

It would have been easy for her tone to take on a condescending quality, as if she were explaining this to a child. But, surprisingly, it didn't. She spoke as if this was the most normal conversation in the world for one adult to have with another adult. And for that, Phil felt incredibly grateful. Barton needed to feel like he could trust people within this organization, and without any coaching from him Hendricks was easily slipping into that role.

There was a pause as Barton seemed to consider this explanation carefully. Hendricks simply waited, looking at him expectantly.

"Okay," Barton finally said reluctantly as he carefully slid back onto the table.

She slid the blood pressure cuff over his arm and tightened it. "I need to monitor your pulse while I do this," she told him, indicating his wrist. He simply nodded. She hesitated though, eyeing his bruised wrist. Her gaze darted over to his other wrist, which looked the same. She started inflating the cuff, but had to ask the obvious question. "What happened to your wrists?"

"Handcuffs," Barton told her shortly.

Hendricks sent an accusatory look over her shoulder at Phil.

"Don't look at me," Phil said defensively. "His wrists were like that before I cuffed him."

Hendricks rolled her eyes, clearly not impressed by the explanation, but let the subject drop.

Phil was a quiet spectator as he observed the duration exam. He was impressed by the way the two fell into a rhythm of Hendricks explaining what she was about to do and why, Barton pausing to absorb the information before giving her a nod to proceed. However, even with the explanations, Barton was still obviously tense with her every move. He flinched whenever Hendricks came into contact with him and the look in his eyes was stormy. It was clearly taking a lot of self-control for him to simply sit and endure the exam.

"Well, the good news is that there's no sign of concussion," Hendricks finally announced. "All other injuries are superficial, just bumps and bruises really. Other than being behind on standard vaccinations, I'd say you're very healthy."

Barton simply looked at her blankly.

"Okay," she said awkwardly after a moment and then turned to Phil. "Do you want me to go ahead and update his vaccinations? I should be able to dig up most of them, though I'm honestly not sure if we keep things like the polio vaccine hanging around."

"If you don't mind," Phil said. Hendricks nodded as she headed out of the room. "I'll help you." He shot Barton a look that told him to stay put as he followed Hendricks back out into the ward. He closed the door firmly before he hurried to catch up with Hendricks, catching her by the arm and causing her to pause just a few feet from the room. "Well?" he asked quickly. "What do you think?"

"It's like I told him," Hendricks said, suddenly sounding weary. "He seems very healthy to me. Physically anyway."

"Physically?" Phil prompted, anxious to get the doctor's perspective on this kid.

"Yes, physically," Hendricks confirmed flatly. "I would sign on the dotted line that that kid is physically fit as a horse." She paused before going on carefully. "But mentally and emotionally… Barton's got a lot of serious shit going on, Coulson."

Phil was a little taken back by the sudden frankness, though not at all surprised by the sentiment.

"The way that anything I wanted to do to him required an explanation of not only what was about to happen but _why_ …" she went on, crossing her arms over her chest, looking troubled. "And even then, he was still jumpy every time it came to any physical contact. That's not normal, Coulson. That's why I cut the physical a little short. I could tell he wasn't handling it well at all, the longer it went on and the more physical contact there was, the more tense he was." She paused for a moment and then looked at him. "Where did you even find this kid? Do you have any idea what he's been through? Because I'm guessing it's nothing good."

Phil sighed. "Well, I found him in prison," he admitted. Hendricks raised her eyebrows at that, but didn't look terribly surprised. "And no, I don't know what he's been through. He won't talk about it."

"Can't say I'm shocked," Hendricks said. "He doesn't seem particularly chatty."

"So, what do you think?" Phil asked carefully. "Abuse?"

"I'd say that's a pretty safe bet," Hendricks confirmed grimly. It was something he had been expecting, but it still didn't make it any easier to hear his suspicions confirmed by the doctor. "Especially given the scars on his back."

"Scars?" Phil said with surprise.

"Pretty good amount that crisscross his back," Hendricks said. "I got a decent look when I lifted his shirt to listen to his lungs. Most of the scars looked pretty old. Educated guess would be that when he was a kid he used to get a good number of lashings from a belt or something similar."

Phil had to pause as he absorbed this. This seventeen-year-old _kid_ had _old_ scars. That really said something about him and what he has been through in his short life.

"That's why you wanted _me_ to do the exam, isn't it?" Hendricks said, seeming to realize it as she said it. "He's shown hostility toward men, hasn't he?"

"There seemed to be that pattern," Phil admitted. "But I wasn't exactly sure it wasn't just hostility toward people in general, I hadn't seen him interact with any women yet. And I figured this would be a good situation to… test the theory." He sent her a guilty look, unsure how she would take this news.

"Well, I'd be offended that you used me as an experiment based solely on my gender, if that wasn't the first real work I've done since I got here," Hendricks said with a small smirk.

"I wouldn't have asked you to if I hadn't also believed you to be a talented doctor," Phil assured her. "I was telling the truth before. I know you can't have been out of medical school more then what, two or three years? That's unheard of in this department. And that's something that shouldn't be taken lightly. The other doctors might be feeling territorial of their precious boy's club, but I'm not one to let that get in the way of letting the best suited for a job get it done."

"Thank you, Agent Coulson," Hendricks said with a more genuine smile.

"You can call me Phil," Phil offered.

"My friends call me Jac," Hendricks said, returning the gesture. She glanced back toward the closed exam room door. "As for Barton, I will say that while he didn't particularly care to have me touching him, he also wasn't particularly hostile toward me. I'd say if you're trying to solve the puzzle, he was probably abused by a male figure at some point in his life. That's also statistically more likely given the aggressive nature of the scars."

"Sadly, that makes sense with what I've seen from him so far," he said with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. He suddenly had a flash of trepidation about this kid. He was clearly far more troubled than Phil had originally anticipated.

Jac opened her mouth as if to say something and then closed it again. Then, seeming to resolve herself, she opened her mouth and tried again.

"Can I ask… what he's doing here?" she asked carefully. "Admittedly, I'm new here, but somehow I don't see SHIELD arresting and detaining seventeen year old kids, unless he's some kind of criminal mastermind that I didn't pick up on."

"No, it's nothing like that," Phil assured her. He paused, struggling to find the right words to describe the situation. "It's a long story, but suffice it to say that he'll be staying here in the detention wing until I can sort out a few things. Mainly, I'm trying to clear some pretty serious charges against him, that would probably land him in prison for the rest of his life if he were convicted."

"Okay," Jac said slowly, clearly knowing that a lot had been left out of that story. But she seemed to decide to overlook that for now. "So, you plan to clear his name… and then what? Just send him on his merry way?"

"Not exactly," Phil hedged, glancing around to see if anyone was close enough to overhear this conversation.

Jac caught the look. "You've got nothing to worry about," she said dryly. "The other doctors have been avoiding me like the plague." Phil shot her a sympathetic look, but she quickly waved it away, unconcerned. "Don't worry, I expected it when I took the job. I'm not here to make friends."

Phil smiled lightly at that. "Seems wise," he said. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I haven't shared this with anyone yet… but I want to recruit him. I can't even breech the subject with Fury though until I clear the kid's name."

Jac nodded, unsurprised. "I would imagine that there's also the small problem of him being underage," she pointed out carefully. "I mean, I don't know a whole lot about the inner workings of this organization yet, but I'm thinking you probably can't recruit a seventeen-year-old kid. And I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that he probably doesn't have a legal guardian that could sign off on a permission slip."

Phil snorted a dull laugh at that, more out of nervous energy than anything else.

"No, not exactly," he confirmed. "I'm kind of making this up as I go along, actually. Barton… he was going down a bad path when I found him. And I know that if we can get him into this program he will thrive here. I can give him a purpose and get him going down the right path before the wrong kind of people get to him."

"Not that that isn't a lovely sentiment," Jac said, "but until he's eighteen, isn't that all just a moot point? I know that it probably isn't ideal, but it seems to me like the only legal option would be to let Child Protective Services handle him until he becomes a legal adult and then approach him about the job."

Phil was shaking his head. "He's had a history with CPS," he explained. "He doesn't trust the system. If we put him back there, he'll be in the wind within twenty-four hours. I need to find a way to keep him here for another four and a half months." He paused, thoughtful. "Maybe emancipation."

But Jac was shaking her head. "Even if you started that process today and managed to fast track it, you're looking at four months at the very least. He would be emancipated for all of two or three weeks before he turned eighteen, not to mention he'll still have to live somewhere while he goes through that process. Which would bring you right back to the state custody issue."

Phil blinked at her in surprise. "How do you know that?" The length of the emancipation process wasn't exactly something most people knew off the top of their heads.

"Let's just say that at one point in my life, it was information that was worth looking up and committing to memory," Jac said vaguely.

"Ah," Phil said, wanting to question it further, but deciding that now wasn't the time for that. Another thought occurred to him, though he knew it probably didn't have much more promise than the emancipation idea. "I don't suppose you know how long it takes to become a foster parent off the top of your head as well?"

"Three to six months," Jac answered immediately. "He'd still need to live somewhere for at least three months. Same problem."

Phil nodded knowingly. He'd have to put more thought into how he was going to keep Barton around after he was able to clear his name.

"You're coming back in with me for this next part," Jac said, abruptly changing the subject back to the task at hand. It wasn't a question or even a suggestion, simply a statement of fact. "All the noninvasive checks were easy to explain, but I'm guessing I'm going to need help convincing him to let me stab him with needles."

"You're probably right," Phil agreed.

"Seriously, I'll be interested to know where this kid's been all his life when you do figure it out," Jac said off handedly as she started to walk away. "Because honestly if you told me he was raised in the wild by a pack of wolves, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised."

Phil nodded to himself as he frowned, glancing back at the closed door behind him.

"You and me both."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Annnddd Phil's on the clock! He's definitely got some hurdles to contend with. I would love to hear your thoughts! Don't forget to leave a review!

* * *

 _ **Chapter Five Sneak Peak**_

"I need to talk to you," she said lowly.

Phil was honestly taken aback by the tone of accusation in her voice. As she walked out of the cell, he had to scramble to catch up with her.

"You know this wasn't my fault, right?" Phil said skeptically as the door closed behind them.

Jac whirled on him. "Of course this is your fault," she snapped. "You're the one who brought him here, that makes him _your_ responsibility."

"And what exactly was I supposed to do to prevent this?" Phil demanded, starting to feel angry.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Okay, we start off this chapter with just a minor correction! Something wasn't adding up for I went back to the timeline that I plotted for this story and figured out I was slightly off with my first time jump back in the first chapter. Between the first and second scene it's actually four and a half months rather than four months as originally indicated. That will be fixed!

And because I confused myself, I'll do just a quick rundown of where we are right now to make sure we're all on the same page! So, we start with that first scene and then flash back 4.5 months (four months and thirteen days if you want exact! Haha). From that point it took Phil just over three weeks (three weeks and two days) to find and bring Clint to the SHEILD base. That's also when Fury gives his 72-hour deadline, so by the end of this chapter and into next chapter we'll be approaching the one-month mark! We'll start making some bigger jumps after that, but I'll try to be more careful about keeping it clear (both for my sake and yours!).

Now of course it's time for the shout outs to my favorites! **TheRedScreech** gets the All-Star Award for catching a typo in my last chapter! Always appreciate readers helping me out with that when I miss something! Also, big thanks to **ELOSHAZZY** ; **XYZArtemis** ; **GraysonSteele** ; and **theflyingpenguin**! I really appreciate you guys taking the time to review and let me know your thoughts!

(Also, **theflyingpenguin:** because you're a guest and I wasn't able to PM this to you, I wanted to say I'm SO happy that you're liking Jac so far! I don't normally have OCs and when I do they're usually only good for a quick appearance, but Jac is finding herself in more and more of this story so I'm happy to find that she's being well received!)

Okay, enough rambling! On with the show!

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

"I assure you, Mr. Coulson, my team and I were very thorough when we did these autopsies. The thing is, when three bodies come in with arrows sticking out of their chests, it's usually a big clue as to the cause of death."

Phil didn't even look up at the pathologist as he carefully flipped through the photographs of the corpses. It was frustratingly difficult to tell much of anything from the pictures alone though, especially considering whether or not the wounds had been tampered with there was no visually getting around the fact that the arrows had done significant damage. What Phil wouldn't have done to be able to go back in time and be able to do his own analysis of these bodies. As it stood, two of the bodies had been cremated and the other had been buried months ago.

"You still did a full exam?" Phil prompted.

"Of course, its standard procedure, no matter how obvious the cause of death seems," the man, Dr. Douglas O'Connell, assure him. "You'll find the notes from the exams included in each file. There wasn't anything out of the ordinary though. Cause of death for all three was penetrating trauma and there were no other wounds to speak of. Pretty straightforward."

Phil only nodded vaguely as he flipped to the back of the file and started perusing the notes.

"Can I ask what exactly you're looking for, Mr. Coulson?" Dr. O'Connell asked slowly.

"Something out of the ordinary," Phil said as he flipped the file closed with a _FWAP_ and finally looked up to meet the man's gaze. "You mentioned a team. Did they also examine the bodies?"

"Yes," Dr. O'Connell confirmed. "I was the head examiner on this particular case, but I was aided by two of my colleagues and a med student here for an internship."

"Are any of them around that I could talk to?" Phil asked.

"The two colleagues are both out today," Dr. O'Connell said. "But I believe the med student is around. I could see if I can find her."

"I'd appreciate it," Phil said with a nod.

"Not a problem," he said dryly, clearly not actually believing that is wasn't a problem.

While he was waiting, Phil continued to leaf through the autopsy files of the three victims, going over all the information that he had already gone over. For all the world, it looked like there was nothing out of the ordinary. But that was only if these files could be trusted.

He sighed heavily as he flipped the files shut again and leaned back in his chair, scrubbing his hands over his face. It had been a very long couple days. He honestly wasn't sure how he was going to get any hard evidence at this point.

Finally, Dr. O'Connell came back with a young girl trailing behind him, looking a little uncertain.

"Phil Coulson, this is our intern, Sandra Hans," Dr. O'Connell introduced.

"It's nice to meet you, Sandra," Phil said with a warm smile, trying to put the nervous girl at ease. He stood up to shake her hand. "I wonder if I might ask you just a couple questions."

"Yes, of course," she said stiffly, as if she were trying very hard to be polite. Her hands shook slightly and her eyes darted toward her superior standing next to her almost like a guard. Something about that just struck Phil wrong.

He shifted his attention to Dr. O'Connell. "I hope you don't mind, but I would prefer to talk with Miss Hans in private."

Dr. O'Connell seemed surprised by the request. He paused as if he had to figure out how he should respond to that.

"Uh, well, of course," O'Connell stammered. "I mean, if Sandra is okay with that." He shot her a look.

Sandra missed the look, her eyes still on Phil. "Um, yeah, that's fine," she said.

"Okay, I'll be right outside if you need anything," O'Connell said, just a hint of reluctance in his tone. He turned and walked out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

"Please, have a seat," Phil invited, motioning to O'Connell's empty seat as he sat back down in his own chair.

Sandra nodded as she did as she was told. "Mr. Coulson, I'm not sure I can tell you anything that Dr. O'Connell didn't already tell you," she said, sounding a bit flustered. "I'm just an intern, I'm not even out of med school yet. I'm mostly just here to learn."

"I know that Miss Hans," Phil assured her. "I'm simply looking for a different perspective." He paused, watching her fidget nervously. "No one is in trouble here, I assure you. I'm just hoping to clear up some confusion around this case." He pushed the files across the table so that Sandra could see them. "Dr. O'Connell said that you assisted with this case?"

Sandra nodded even before she looked down at the files. Obviously, Dr. O'Connell had already told her which case Phil was interested in. Another red flag that something wasn't quite right here.

"Yes, it was one of the first cases they had me assisting on," she said.

"So, you probably remember it pretty well," Phil said. Sandra simply nodded. "What did you think of the case?"

"They explained that it was pretty typical of what kind of cases they got in this office," she said, sounding just a little too practiced with her words. "They admitted that they usually don't get victims killed by arrows per say, but they do get a lot of homicides, usually gunshot or stab wounds. Then they showed the difference between these wounds and what a bullet or a knife would have done."

Phil nodded. "And nothing about it seemed… odd to you?"

"I mean, I don't know that I would know what would be odd," Sandra said with a nervous laugh. "All I really know about it is what they told me."

Phil nodded again. Then he was digging in his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. Sandra shifted uneasily in her seat as he scrolled through his phone for a moment, finally pulling up what he was looking for. He zoomed in on the picture and then placed the phone on the table, spun it so that it was facing the med student and then slid it over to her. She leaned over to look, confused.

"Who's this?" she asked.

"That is Clint Barton," Phil explained evenly, nodding at Barton's mugshot that he had brought up on his phone. "He's the seventeen-year-old kid who's being blamed for the three murders in this case." Sandra's eyes widened at that. "What little evidence that has been presented is pretty damning… he was spotted and photographed fleeing the scene with a bow and quiver. But that's the only evidence there is, and he is very adamant about saying that he is innocent." He paused, letting that sink in for a moment. "Here's the problem, if I can't find any evidence in his favor, chances are this kid is going to go to prison for the rest of his life."

"I… I don't…" Sandra stuttered, looking incredibly uncomfortable. "I mean, I wish I knew something… but…"

"I always think it's nice to have a fresh set of eyes on things," Phil went on gently. "Sometimes the older generation… they get stuck in their ways. They see the same old same old and they don't look too much into it. It's not their fault if they missed something. Mistakes happen. I'm just trying to keep a possible mistake from completely destroying this young man's life."

There was something here. He just knew it. He could feel it.

Sandra looked down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "Mr. Coulson… I _really_ need this internship," she suddenly said quietly. "If I lose this job it'll put me behind all my classmates, and the field is so competitive…"

"I understand," Phil assured her, leaning forward. "I'm not looking to get anyone in trouble. I'm doing everything I can to keep this kid out of court. If I had some hard evidence to keep him out of the courtroom, I could make sure the evidence got into the hands of people who would be… discreet with it. No one in this office needs to have any idea that anything changed."

Sandra hesitated, seemingly having an internal debate. Then, very slowly and carefully, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. For a moment, she just held the phone, looking down at it, still obviously torn as to what to do.

"And… you promise Dr. O'Connell won't know?" she said quietly, glancing up at Phil with pleading in her eyes.

"This will stay between you and me," Phil assured her. "No one here will have any idea that anything changed."

Sandra took a deep breath. Then she unlocked her phone and started strolling through it.

"We were going over the autopsies," she explained, her eyes steadily on her phone. "They were explaining the cause of deaths and explaining the effects of penetrating trauma. But when they turned over one of the bodies…" Finally, she found the picture she was looking for and held out her phone to Phil.

Phil reached out and took it, studying the image displayed on the phone.

"There's a more zoomed out picture if you swipe left," she told him. He did and his eyes widened as the wound he was looking at was put into context. "That's the back of the third victim," she explained. "I… I asked why there was an exit wound with an arrow injury. None of the arrows had gone all the way through any of the victims. Dr. O'Connell told me that sometimes there were anomalies, and it was easier just to call it what it looked like and move on to more important cases." She paused, shifting uncomfortably. "I meant well, I really did, Mr. Coulson. I secretly took those pictures with every intention of bringing it up with the authorities. But… I was just of afraid of losing my job…"

And there is was. There was the evidence that he needed. It was rare for an arrow to leave an exit wound, and never one that looked like this. This victim very clearly had a gunshot wound, and there had never been any evidence that Barton had ever had a gun.

"I'm going to need these photos," Phil told her. She simply nodded silently, still looking anxious. Phil met her gaze. "You did the right thing, Sandra. And to thank you for that, I am personally going to make sure that no ramifications come back to you for this. I promise you."

"Thank you, Mr. Coulson, I appreciate that," Sandra said with a weak smile.

"And I appreciate your honestly," Phil returned sincerely. "You may just have helped save this kid's life." He wasn't exaggerating. Kids who were sentenced to prison didn't always fare well against the hardened criminals they were suddenly thrown in with.

At that, Sandra finally looked relieved, relaxing back into her chair.

It didn't take long to transfer the photos to a secure portable server that Phil kept on him. He thanked Sandra again for her help before gathering the files – just in case he needed them again – and finally headed out of the Chicago hospital.

He paused outside the hospital to take a long, deep breath. It had been almost forty-eight hours since he had started his investigation into this case. It had been a frustrating process. Insight into the victims had revealed nothing significant. All three were everyday people who, for all intents and purposes, just seemed to have been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Scouring security camera footage from the surrounding area – there had been none that covered the actual crime scene – had been equally unhelpful. There was footage of each of the victims heading toward the scene, all from different directions. Then there was a brief appearance by Barton fleeing several blocks from the scene just after the time of death established for each of the victims. Several other pedestrians could be seen in the area, but none of them had any suspicious qualities. Several taxis also passed through the vicinity, but insight into those had been a dead end as well.

That had finally led him to his trip to the Chicago hospital which had performed the autopsies on the victims. It was basically his last-ditch effort. If this trip hadn't turned up anything, he was going to hit a brick well in this investigation.

But it had. It was his first real break in this entire situation. And he couldn't help but smile.

The feeling of triumph and relief lasted until he was in the Quinjet and heading back toward the base. Then his cell phone rang.

"Coulson."

" _Hey, Coulson, it's Campbell down in the detention wing._ "

"Sure, what can I do for you, Campbell?" Phil said warily. He knew John Campbell was in charge of the detention wing on the base and couldn't help but feel a little nervous that he was getting a phone call directly from him.

Chances are it meant there was something wrong.

" _Listen, I'm thinking you might want to take a walk sometime today and check in on that kid you've got stored down here,_ " Campbell said.

"Any particular reason?" Phil asked, glancing down at his watch. He was about an hour out from the base and he still had a lot he had to get done with Fury's three-day deadline looming over him.

" _He's been acting… strange,_ " Campbell said slowly. " _He was moving almost non-stop for about the first twelve hours since you left him there, then abruptly stopped. He's been sitting in the same corner without moving for almost thirty-six hours now. I think he got up once to use the bathroom, but that was it. I don't even know if he's slept at all._ " He paused. " _I didn't think to much of it, until one of my guys pointed out that he hasn't eaten anything since he first got here._ "

"What?" Phil said, surprised.

" _We've sent in seven meals total since he first got here and we've had to toss out all but that first one, which he practically licked the plate clean. And he won't say anything when my guys ask him why he's not eating. Actually, he's not saying anything at all. It just seems… very strange."_

"Yeah, it does," Phil agreed. He sighed heavily. "Listen, I'm just now heading back to base and then I've got a few things to wrap up, but I'll be by within the next two hours or so, see if I can figure out what's wrong."

" _I'd appreciate it,_ "Campbell said. " _You know it's an awful lot of paperwork if this kid keels over due to malnutrition in my detention wing._ "

"Call me before anything like that happens," Phil instructed seriously. He knew the man was mostly joking, but the last thing he needed was any unnecessary paperwork in this situation. He needed to keep this off of the Council's radar for as long as he could.

As Phil finally arrive back on base, he was quick to pass along the information he had gathered to Bradbury, who was helping him to build his case for Barton's innocence. About an hour and a half after the phone call with Campbell, he was heading down to the detention wing. As he moved through the base, he couldn't help but feel concerned as he was doing the math over and over in his head. Barton hadn't eaten in just over forty-eight hours. And he had a hunch that there was a significant gap between the one meal he had eaten here and his previous meal.

He had to be hungry… so when he was presented with food, why wouldn't he eat it?

"Hey, Coulson," Campbell greeted as Phil entered the control room.

"Any change?" Phil asked.

"Nope," Campbell said, motioning to the monitors that one of his guys was seated in front of. "Still not moving and still not talking." Then he pointed to a tray sitting on the desk that had a sandwich, a bag of chips, a brownie and a bottle of water. "You can take that in with you."

"Thanks, Campbell, I appreciate it," Phil said as he grabbed the tray before moving over to the door to be buzzed in to the main detention wing hallway.

He honestly wasn't sure what to expect when he approached Barton's cell. Last time he had seen the kid he felt like they had hit a level of grudging respect and paper-thin trust… which was an improvement from when they had first met. He wondered if that admittedly flimsy bond would work for him now.

As he was buzzed in to the cell, he immediately looked for Barton, finding him easily in the exact same spot he had been in when he saw him on the monitors just a few minutes before. The kid was pressed back into the far corner of the cell, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms resting on top of his knees. His head was tilting to one side, just brushing the wall adjacent to the one he was sitting against, and his gaze was unfocused and he was staring vacantly across the cell.

And as Phil walked into the cell and closed the door behind him, Barton didn't so much as twitch to acknowledge his presence.

"Hey, Barton," Phil said, trying to sound as casual as he could. "I brought you some lunch." No response, not even a glance. Phil sighed as he stepped closer. "I'm told that you haven't eaten the last six meals you were offered. Care to tell me why that is?" Barton blinked. At least Phil knew he was definitely still conscious. "If you don't like the food, I can find you something different." Silence. "What do you like?" More silence. He might as well have been talking to the walls.

Phil took a deep breath before he lowered himself down to sit on the floor in front of Barton, putting them on the same level. Barton's eyes darted in his direction, though his head did not move. It was a small reaction, but it was a reaction nonetheless.

"I'd really like to help you out, kid," Phil said evenly, meeting Barton's gaze as he tossed the tray down in between them, letting it clatter in the quiet space. "But I can't do that if you don't talk to me."

Barton blinked slowly at him, his expression hazy.

They sat like that for twenty minutes, neither saying a word. As Phil watched the kid, he couldn't help but notice how pale he was, even more so than he had been when he had first brought him in. His head would list to one side ever so slightly, only to jerk back up. His eyes had been intent on Phil at first, but now his gaze seemed to be randomly drifting.

He couldn't watch this.

He stood up and turned his back to the kid. He walked to the door and waved, waiting for the tell-tale buzz that told him he could walk out the door.

"Well?" Campbell said as Phil reentered the control room.

"I need to make a call," Phil said flatly, not really caring to answer the question when he knew they had been watching the exchange – or rather lack thereof. He pulled out his phone and dialed. "Dr. Hendricks? I wonder if you might have time to do me another favor."

As it turned out, Jac still had all the time in the world with the other doctors throwing her menial scut work, and she appeared in the control room not even twenty minutes later with the requested supplies.

"So, what exactly is going on?" Jac asked briskly as she entered.

"Barton hasn't eaten or had anything to drink in over forty-eight hours," Phil explained even as he was leading her into main hall of the detention wing.

"They're not feeding him down here?" Jac said, pausing for a moment in her shock.

"No, no, it's nothing like that," Phil quickly assured her, hurrying her along the hall. "He's been offered food three times a day since he's been here. He ate the first meal, but has refused to eat anything since."

"Why?" Jac asked.

"No idea," Phil said. "He's also not talking. But he's beginning to show outward signs of dehydration and malnutrition. At the very least, I can tell that he's getting dizzy and disoriented just based on the way his eyes won't focus. If he goes another day without hydrating he's going to be in real trouble."

They had paused outside of the cell, waiting for the control room to unlock the door. Jac suddenly had a thoughtful look on her face, like there was something about his statement that answered some kind of unspoken question that she had had. But before Phil could ask her about it, there was the now familiar buzz of the lock being disabled, and Phil turned back to the task at hand, opening the door and leading the way inside.

He took the time to confirmed that Barton hadn't moved before he spoke.

"Alright, Barton," he said briskly. Barton eyes rose to regard him, sliding wearily in Jac's general direction before wandering back toward Phil. "I don't know what's going on, but I do know that if you don't get some fluids in your system, you're going to die. And because I know you don't have much in the way of a formal education, I'm going to tell you that people need food and water in order to _live_."

There was a strange tightening around Barton's eyes, as if he wanted to glare at him but just didn't have the energy. Phil sighed, anger flooding out of him as quickly as it had come.

"I brought Dr. Hendricks to help you rehydrate," he went on. "She'll hook you up to an IV and get fluids back into your system. This is not a negotiation, Barton. You will do this, because I'm not going to sit here and watch you slowly die."

"Alright, Phil, he gets it, let's not be dramatic," Jac said impatiently as she brushed past him. "It's been two days, not a week." She approached Barton carefully, lowering down to crouch a few feet in front of him. "Alright Barton, you mind giving me some indication that you understand what's going on?" She spoke gently, keeping steady eye contact with the kid. For a minute, he simply stared at her. "C'mon, Barton, if you don't give me some indication that you understand then this is going to get far more complicated than it needs to be." Still nothing. She sighed. "Seriously, you gotta give me _something_ or else this next part is going to involve a gurney and restraints."

Barton closed his eyes, squeezing them shut for a moment before he opened them and leveled his unsteady gaze back on the doctor in front of him. Finally, he carefully moved his head down and then back up.

Jac sighed. "I'm going to take that as a 'yes, Dr. Hendricks, I know exactly what's going on, thank you for taking time out of your busy day to help me out!'" she said dryly as she started sorting through the medical bag that she had brought with her.

Phil stood back and watched stoically as Jac patiently explained the IV drip to Barton, with the kid watching her carefully the entire time. He noticed the way that he didn't flinch when the doctor picked up his hand and wiped it with an alcohol swab. He would have thought it was a positive sign that he was beginning to trust them if it wasn't for the hazy look in the kid's eyes that made Phil pretty sure he hadn't reacted simply because his reflexes were shot due to dehydration.

Which begged the question… why would Barton intentionally do this to himself?

"Okay, now you are to leave that alone, you hear me?" Jac said sternly as she finished up, meeting the kid's gaze. She had attached the IV to the back of his hand and then had taped the bag of fluid to the wall behind him, since they couldn't leave an IV stand in here. She went on, lowering her voice and speaking gently and sincerely. "If you hurt yourself with that, chances are _I'm_ not going to be the one called back down here to deal with it. And trust me, you are not going to like dealing with any of the other doctors."

Barton gave the smallest nod, just a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. Jac nodded in return as she gathered up her supplies, packing it up again before she stood up and turned, heading for the door. As she waited to be buzzed out of the cell, she leveled a look at Phil.

"I need to talk to you," she said lowly.

Phil was honestly taken aback by the tone of accusation in her voice. As she walked out of the cell, he had to scramble to catch up with her.

"You know this wasn't my fault, right?" Phil said skeptically as the door closed behind them.

Jac whirled on him. "Of course this is your fault," she snapped. "You're the one who brought him here, that makes him _your_ responsibility."

"And what exactly was I supposed to do to prevent this?" Phil demanded, starting to feel angry.

"Let me ask you this," Jac said. "You brought him to see me over two days ago. I assume you brought him back here afterward. And then before this, had you seen him since then?"

Phil blinked for a moment. "Well, I've been a little busy trying to clear his name."

"Does _he_ know that?" Jac asked, gesturing back toward the cell.

Phil opened his mouth before slamming it shut again, feeling thrown off balance by that question.

"Uh, yeah he does," Phil said, though even he could hear the doubt in his tone. "I mean, I told him that's why I was bringing him here."

"Yes, but have you given him any updates on the process?" Jac pressed.

"Well, I haven't had much to update him on before today," Phil hedged.

"So, you dumped him in that small, windowless cell and left him alone with no news for two whole days?" Jac said, crossing her arms over her chest and fixed him with an accusatory gaze.

Phil opened his mouth but once again found that he had nothing to say to that and could only snap it shut again. _Oh shit…_ She did have a point.

"If you want my unofficial advice, that kid needs out of that cell," Jac went on, leveling him with a knowing look, almost as if she could read his mind. "Something about the situation is clearly getting to him and causing him to shut down. So, you need to change the situation."

"How long does he need to be hooked up to that IV?" Phil asked.

"I'd give it at least an hour," Jac said. "I trust you'll be able to unhook it when it's finished?"

Phil nodded. "I'll take care of it."

"Good," Jac said with a nod, looking relieved as she turned and headed back toward the control room at a brisk pace. "Call me if you need anything else. Or if you just want to gossip. It's boring as hell up there."

After she was gone, Phil paused to take a breath and refocus on the situation. Somewhere along the line he had lost perspective. This wasn't a situation he found himself… ever. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had dealt with a minor in this capacity, never mind a _troubled_ minor.

He was in way over his head here. Even more so than he had realized before this moment.

After giving himself a moment to feel overwhelmed, he forcibly pushed those feelings away. He had to deal with this. He headed back out to the control room to grab the bag he had with him when he had landed and then strode back into the detention wing.

As he walked back into Barton's cell, he found that the kid hadn't moved except to hang his head. At the noise of the door opening again, he lifted his head and Phil was just able to catch the flash of confusion in his eyes before he carefully wiped the expression blank again. Phil didn't acknowledge the look. Instead he let the door close behind him as he headed across the cell to the cot. He was aware of the kid's eyes following him, but he still didn't acknowledge him as he settled himself on the foot of the cot, digging some files that he needed to go over out of his bag and settling himself in to get some work done as he waited for Barton's IV bag to run its course.

As Phil glanced up from organizing his makeshift workspace, he caught Barton openly staring at him.

"I'm not as young as I used to be," Phil said mildly as he shuffled through a stack of papers. "Sitting on the floor may be fine for you, but it's murder on my back."

Barton blinked, looking no less confused as to what Phil was doing. But Phil wasn't going to address any other questions that weren't spoken out loud. So, he calmly focused on his work, allowing the silence the dominate the room.

It was a solid hour later and not a word had been spoken between the two. As Phil glanced up from his work he saw that the IV bag was just about empty. At some point, Barton had stopped staring and had leaned his head back against the wall behind him, seeming to study the ceiling at the other end of the room.

Calmly, Phil stood up and went to take a closer look. He didn't miss the way that Barton stiffened at his approach… but he found that he was relieved to see it. It was a good sign that the IV had done its job and Barton was more alert and aware of what was going on.

"Bet you feel better now," Phil commented as he crouched down in front of the kid. Barton watched him carefully. Phil motioned to the IV that was tapped to his hand. "The IV's finished. Can I take that out?"

Barton lifted his hand slightly and looked at it curiously, as if contemplating something. Phil saw what was going to happen… and decided to roll with it. Maybe he could help the kid regain some control over this situation.

"Here, I'm going to close this off," he narrated as he slowly and deliberately reached for the bag on the wall and did just that. "Now, if you want to take it out yourself… you just need to peel off the tape first. Then you just slide the tube backward out of your skin. Just take it slow and careful so not to damage anything."

Barton looked at him as if sizing him up. Then he started to reach for his hand and then paused, glancing at Phil unsurely, as if he thought he was going to stop him. When Phil didn't move, he continued reaching for his hand and pulled the tape. Then, carefully he worked the IV tube out of his skin.

"Not bad for your first time," Phil commented. He stood up. "Now come on. We're going on a field trip."

Barton didn't have to think twice about the offer. He immediately scrambled to his feet and silently turned and put his hands behind his back before Phil even had a chance to ask. He carefully cuffed the kid before he moved them to the front of the cell and waved at the security camera to be let out.

He made no comments as he signed Barton out of the detention wing and led him back into the base, a very specific destination in mind.

He knew this was risky. He knew that he was going to get an earful from Fury when he inevitably discovered the security footage. But he also knew that Barton needed this. He needed to feel in control after Phil had inadvertently taken that from him.

"Move quickly," Phil said lowly as he scanned his ID card over the reader next to a specific door.

Barton sent him a confused look but as Phil opened the door he thankfully complied.

Luck seemed to be on their side as there were only a couple of other people practicing in the shooting range when they entered. Phil angled himself strategically between Barton and the row of pods on one side that agents were practicing in. Not that anyone was paying any attention, but in the event that someone glanced over his shoulder Phil didn't want them to see the handcuffs, a dead giveaway that they really shouldn't be here.

He quickly moved them down the corridor and away from the few people that were in there practicing. As they went all the way to the very last pod in the row they were treated to a good amount of privacy and it was highly unlikely they would be disturbed any time soon.

"Alright, I'm going to uncuff you," Phil told him as he pulled the key from his pocket. As he did just that, Barton turned and gave him a skeptical look. "Now wait here."

He stepped out of the pod and to where the community weapons were kept, just a few steps away at the end of the hall. He picked up a simple handgun, loaded it before pocketing some extra ammo and then headed back for the pod. Barton was still there waiting for him… and as his eyes fell on the gun in Phil's hand, Phil couldn't help but notice the way his shoulders stiffened and his eyes were darting around, looking for an exit.

"Here," Phil said quickly before the kid had more of a chance to panic, gripping the barrel of the handgun and holding the handle out toward the teenager. Barton furrowed his brow in confusion, but slowly reached out and took the offered gun. "Careful, it's loaded."

For a long moment, Barton just stared down at the gun in his hand. Then, finally, he looked up and he spoke.

"Let me get this straight." His voice cracked slightly from disuse. "So, you leave me locked in that cell for two days, bring me up here, take off the handcuffs… and then hand me a loaded gun?"

"Accurate grasp of the situation," Phil confirmed evenly.

"You know I could shoot you," Barton pointed out mildly. "I could just shoot you and get the hell out of here."

"I know," Phil said. "And I'm trusting you not to do that. I'm trusting you because you've trusted me to clear your name, and I haven't gone about that in a way I should have." Barton cocked a surprised eyebrow at that. "I've been working nonstop to work out what really happened that night in Chicago. It's only earlier today that I finally got my first piece of real evidence in your favor. I know for certain now that I can clear your name. But I should have kept you appraised of the situation as it developed, even when I didn't have anything concrete to report. I shouldn't have left you down there for so long with no news. And for that, I am sorry."

Barton stared at him a long time and Phil steadily held that gaze.

"So… what do you want me to do with this?" Barton finally asked, indicating the gun.

"Consider it a long overdue recess," Phil said with a smirk as he crossed his arms over his chest. Then he nodded at the handgun. "Have you ever fired a gun before? Or do you just use bow and arrows?"

Barton smirked as his expression lightened just a shade. He flicked off the safety and cocked the gun without looking at it, the weapon looking quite at home in his hands as he turned toward the target. He lifted the gun, eyed the target at the other end of the range… and then lowered the gun again as he glanced over at Phil.

"Does the target go back any further?" he asked, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Phil couldn't help the small smile at the sign of life behind Barton's normally deliberately neutral expression.

"Here," he said, reaching forward and indicating a control panel that was set at the front of the pod. "See these arrows? You can use them to move the target back and forth."

Barton tapped the arrows experimentally, watching the target jerk backward and then forward a few times. Then he jabbed his finger on the "back" arrow and held it there, watching the target move farther away. He didn't let up until the target was as far away as it could possibly go.

"That's it?" Barton asked, his eyes on the target with a calculating expression.

"You know that's a hundred yards," Phil pointed out. "That's a bit excessive for a handgun."

Barton simply rolled his eyes at that. He lifted the gun again and took a moment to sight down the range. Then he fired off three quick shots. As he lowered the gun Phil could see the ghost of an honest to goodness smile on his face.

Phil's eyes tracked down the range and he had to do a doubletake. He blinked and then took a step closer to get a better look.

"No way," he couldn't help but say softly to himself. Though judging by the way that Barton glanced over his shoulder at him, smirking, he figured the kid had heard him.

All three shots had landed in a textbook formation in the innermost circle on the target.

"Does it at least _move_ or something?" Barton asked arrogantly.

"Not generally while someone's firing, no," Phil said, still staring down range, hardly believing what he was looking at.

Barton squared his shoulders, raising the gun, and emptied the clip into the middle of the target. Without looking, he reached back and accepted another clip from Phil, skillfully switching out the empty clip for a full one with barely a cursory glance down at the weapon. He lifted the gun and then started firing again. At first, Phil thought that he had finally missed the middle of the target… until he realized the kid was very deliberately _drawing_ a circle with bullets around the outside of the bullseye.

All this with an almost lazy look on his face. Like he was hardly trying.

"I could write your name next if you've got another clip and a clean target," Barton smirked, glancing back on him.

"Okay, not a challenge, I get it," Phil said. "Hang on a minute."

It took him a few minutes to switch the target out for a different, sturdier target. Then he disappeared back to the weapons locker and returned a minute later with a compound bow and a couple dozen arrows.

"I know it's not the same kind of bow that you have," Phil admitted as he handed it over, "but it's the only one we have down here. Not many agents practice with anything other than a firearm."

Barton looked intrigued. He fiddled with the bow for a moment, pulling back the bowstring experimentally.

"Draw weight's pretty pathetic," he commented thoughtfully. He glanced at Phil. "You don't have an Allen wrench on you, do you?"

It only took Phil a minute to grab an Allen wrench from a kit back at the weapon's locker. He watched as Barton meticulously worked on the compound bow for a few minutes, tightening up the bow string. Even though it wasn't the same type of bow that he had, it was obvious that he was also familiar with this kind of bow. Just like he was familiar with the handgun.

This kid was full of surprises.

"Where did you learn to shoot like that?" Phil ventured carefully as he watched Barton fiddle with the bow.

Barton glanced at him. "With the gun or are you talking about the bow?"

"Either."

Barton shrugged a shoulder, his eyes steadily remaining on his work. "Lots of practice."

Finally, he took an arrow and nocked it. He squared one shoulder toward the target, exhaling before he drew the bowstring back with his left hand while simultaneously lifting the riser with his right in one smooth motion. He took a moment, eyed the target and fired.

At this point, Phil wasn't surprised when the arrow landed in the dead center of the target.

As Phil quietly watched, he could visibly see the tension in Barton releasing between shots. He seemed more relaxed than he had since Phil had first met him. Perhaps that was what gave Phil the push to ask something that had been bothering him for a few days now. It was a soft nagging in the back of his brain that had been there since he had sat down and watched the footage from the dash cam of the cop in Detroit that had managed to catch Barton after three SHEILD agents had failed.

"Do you think you could clear something up for me?" Phil asked as casually as he could as Barton drew yet another arrow.

Barton glanced at him wearily out of the corner of his eye before focusing back on the target and firing.

"Possibly."

Phil paused for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts.

"Have you ever seen a taser before?" he asked.

Barton was so taken off guard that he lowered his bow and turned toward him, confused.

"What?" he asked.

"Have you ever seen a taser before," Phil repeated calmly.

"I know what a taser is," Barton said, raising both eyebrows at him.

"Okay," Phil allowed with a slight nod. "But have you ever _seen_ one before?"

"Well, I assume it's the thing I was shot with by that cop in Detroit," Barton said slowly, obviously having no idea what Phil was trying to get at.

"Uh huh," Phil allowed, feeling an odd tightening in the pit of his stomach. "So, it's safe to assume you hadn't actually seen one before that?"

"Um, I guess," Barton said, shrugging one shoulder. "Why does that matter?"

"I've just been wondering about something," Phil said. "Like the way you took down three highly trained SHEILD agents, and then not even two weeks later you get pinched by a couple lowly beat cops in Detroit."

Barton blinked as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and then back. "Guess I just ran out of luck."

"Yeah," Phil said, unconvinced. "Except I got my hands on the dash cam from that cop's car. And… it looks remarkably like when the cop jumps out of his car and aims his taser at you… you hesitated."

Barton paused for a beat longer than he should have.

"Guy took me by surprise." He shrugged again as he turned back to the target, raising his bow and drawing another arrow.

"Uh huh," Phil hummed, far from convinced. Apparently, that was obvious in his tone by the way that Barton's shoulders stiffened defensively.

"Well, if you're so smart, why don't you tell me what you think happened," Barton snapped sarcastically, his eyes trained steadily on the target down the range as he released the arrow.

Phil took a deep breath. He was this far into it, he might as well see this through.

"Here's my thought," he said casually as Barton drew another arrow, still not looking at him. "For a person that has never seen a taser before, at a glance and in the dark it can look a lot like… a gun."

Barton's eyes darted toward him as he released the arrow. Even with the distraction though, as Phil tracked the arrow down the range he found that it landed in perfect formation among the others clustered in the dead center of the target.

"So, your brilliant theory is that after beating back two other cops and making a break for it, I thought I saw a gun, so I stopped moving?" Barton said sarcastically, but his tone seemed more tense than it had before. "That makes absolutely no sense."

"You're right, it doesn't," Phil agreed flatly.

As Barton didn't seem inclined to respond, Phil let the subject drop. But he couldn't help this aching feeling in his chest. Barton had fought desperately against arrest, even going so far as to knock two police officers out cold so that he could get away. But when a gun like object was pointed at him… he hesitated. Almost as if he were presenting a target.

Almost as if he were hoping to be gunned down.

Whether it was a conscious decision or not, that fact screamed clearly to Phil from his actions. He'd fight tooth and nail against being arrested, but when it came to a gun being pointed at him, maybe just for a moment he saw an escape from the life he was leading.

And suddenly he knew this was more than just another troubled teenager living on the streets of America. Barton was far more broken than he could have imagined.

* * *

 **Author's Note :** There we have it! Poor Clint. But Phil is finally getting a glimpse of what he's actually dealing with here. It'll still be a while before he gets the full picture though! Don't forget to leave a review and let me know your thoughts!

* * *

 _ **Chapter Six Sneak Peak**_

"Phil, this kid is _not_ our responsibility," Fury pressed. "We can't save every charity case out there, you know that."

"No, not out there," Phil agreed, waving a hand vaguely at the window before jabbing a finger at the file sitting on the desk. "But we have one kid in here that we have the opportunity to save. Who would we be if we didn't even try?"

"He's only in here because _you_ brought him here," Fury countered.

"And I only brought him here because he outshot two of our agents in the dead night with nothing more than a bow and arrow," Phil shot back. "You really want him out there for someone else to recruit?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** So first off, apologies that this chapter is a little late. Have you ever been supposed to be doing final edits to a chapter for one story but then instead end up accidentally spitting out the first 5,000 words for an AU where Phil runs a group home and is foster parent to the Avengers as troubled teenagers? No? That's just my crazy ADD brain? Haha! But maybe it'll develop into a full story at some point.

Now quick announcement. Unfortunately, with the posting of this chapter I have officially caught up with what I had prewritten (at least as far as consecutive chapters go). Booo! I have a lot of scenes from later chapters written, but there's still some build up before we get there. (out of curiosity, I just did a word count… not counting what I've already posted, I've got 19,594 words written for later chapters! Wow! So, lots more material coming, I promise!) That coupled with the fact that I'll be out of town for most of next week, and chances are it's going to take a little longer than my usual week to get the next chapter posted. Apologies for that! BUT in the meantime, I do have an Avengers one shot mostly written which is basically expanding on that last scene from _Captain America: Civil War_ that I've been meaning to finish up for ages. I'm going to kick that into gear and hopefully be able to get you guys at least a little something within the next week or two. So, if that sounds interesting, keep an eye out!

Okay, sorry, I tend to ramble, so real quick shout outs to my favorites! This week's All Star Award goes to **theflyingpenguin** for catching a typo for me to correct in the last chapter! I appreciate you helping me out like that! And of course, I must mention the rest of my reviewers: **TheRedScreech** ; **ELOSHAZZY** ; **XYZArtemis** ; **Hatter5151** ; and **Arie'Lizbeth**! You guys are the literal best and I really appreciate you taking the time to let me know your thoughts!

Okay, okay, I'm done now, I promise! On we go to the next chapter!

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

Phil had been very careful to run out his three-day time limit down to the minute, calmly walking into Fury's office exactly seventy-two hours after their original conversation. Without comment, he had placed a file on Fury's desk and then taken a seat in front of the desk, tucking a second, thicker file discreetly onto his lap as Fury focused in on the first file.

"Well, seems pretty straight forward," Fury finally announced after only ten minutes of perusing the information set in front of him. He snapped the file closed and tossed it back down onto his desk, leveling his gaze at Phil. "Since no formal changes had been made, present this to any judge in the Chicago area and it's pretty much a guarantee they'll drop Barton as a person of interest. The injuries were clearly staged, and even if Barton had wanted to do that for some reason, he wasn't in the area long enough to accomplish it."

Phil nodded, already knowing this. "I've already identified the judge who signed the warrant for Barton's arrest. I've got the package of evidence ready to be sent over to her and I would imagine that by the morning Barton will be considered a free man once again."

Fury nodded. "Good. Go ahead and pass the information along. Also, have someone notify the state of New York's Child Protective Services office that we'll have a delivery for them by lunch tomorrow. I don't want this kid here any longer than he has to be. It's long past time this situation be put to bed so you can focus on more important matters."

Phil sat up straighter. Now was the time.

"Sir, I'd like to discuss something with you before we pursue that course of action," he said.

Fury looked vaguely surprised at that. "And what's that?"

"I'd like to recruit Clint Barton to be an Agent of SHEILD."

There was a long, heavy pause following that statement.

"You can't be serious," Fury finally said.

"I'm very serious," Phil assure him. He took the second file from his lap and placed it on the desk, sliding it over to Fury who caught it automatically, his eye still on Phil with a look of disbelief. It was one of the few times Phil could remember Fury actually looking taken off guard. "This is the information I've gathered on Barton so far. If this file had crossed my desk with the rest of the potential recruit files, I would have approved him just looking at his shooting record alone."

Fury made no move to open the file. "I'm not going to deny the kid is a good shot, but that's not the only thing to consider here."

"He's not a good shot," Phil insisted. "He's a _phenomenal_ shot. It wasn't just a fluke that he outshot our agents that night with Bates. This seventeen-year-old kid has by far the best shooting record I've ever seen of _any_ agent in our organization. That's including veterans who have been doing this for the past twenty years or more. He was firing a handgun at one hundred yards and looked bored as he emptied the entire clip into the bullseye."

Fury paused, and despite himself he looked intrigued by this. Most agents practiced with a handgun at twenty-five yards at most. Finally, he reached forward and flipped open the file, finding Barton's shooting record conveniently placed front and center. And Phil could have sworn that for just a split second the man looked impressed.

"That's all well and good, Phil," Fury said, looking back up at him. "But you know full well that shooting records aren't the only thing to be taken into a consideration. There is a reason that we don't go around to prisons on recruiting trips."

"I know that," Phil assured him. "But Barton isn't a criminal."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Fury deadpanned, "but did you not meet him in jail and then, after losing track of him for a few weeks, caught up with him again in prison?"

Phil winced at that, knowing exactly how that sounded.

"Technically true," he allowed. "But once this business in Chicago is cleared from his record, he will have no serious charges against him. Just take a look at the rest of his file."

Fury huffed a sigh, but picked up the folder and leaned back in his seat, flipping through the information. Phil knew that the next piece of pertinent information he'd be looking for would be Barton's academic scores. It had taken a lot of prodding from Phil – along with a promise to get Barton back to the range and let him fire his own bow – to get Barton to even take the standard academic test. Fury was quiet as he looked over the test results, frowning.

"So, you want to recruit a seventeen-year-old kidwhose test scores are at a sixth-grade level?" Fury asked, tossing the file down to the desk in front of him and leveling his gaze at Phil. "Have you finally lost your damn mind, Phil?"

"True, Barton reads and writes at a sixth-grade level," Phil allowed. "But, consider the fact that he has basically no record of a formal education. Despite the fact that when his parents died he should have been in first grade, there are no records of him ever attending any of the area schools, not even the one his older brother attended. When he was in the group homes there were tutors for the kids, but nothing substantial in terms of an educational program. He was enrolled briefly in a public school when he was in a foster home when he was nine, but other than that he's really has no formal schooling. So, the fact that he's even reached a sixth-grade reading and writing level basically on his own is actually a feat in itself."

"That may be," Fury allowed, "but in terms of discussing a possible recruit, you can still color me less than impressed."

"I figured as much," Phil said knowingly. He reached over and flipped the page in the file. "So, take a look at that."

Fury paused as he read over the paper. "What am I looking at?" he asked after a minute.

"I triple checked to make sure that those scores were correct," Phil told him. "I also watched the kid take the test myself, so I know for a fact that there was no way he could cheat. Barton hasn't had anything that adds up to a significant formal education, and yet his math and physics scores are practically off the charts."

"So, what, the kid is some kind of Good Will Hunting?" Fury said skeptically.

"In a way," Phil said slowly, not particularly caring to reduce this accomplishment to a movie reference. "The kid excels tremendously in the subjects that he's needed in daily life. It's safe to say he hasn't needed to do much reading and writing, but the math and physics knowledge is the basis for where his expertise with the bow and arrow come from. It's obvious that he _can_ learn, it's just he hasn't had the opportunity. I bet anything that I can have him ready to pass his GED with flying colors before he even turns eighteen."

Fury was quiet for a minute as he seemed to consider this. He flipped through a few more pages in the file, but Phil knew that the rest would be mostly the information that he already knew from what they had originally found on Barton through the system. Fury's features gave away nothing but when he looked up and spoke again, Phil could feel his hope failing.

"You said he excels in the subjects that he's needed in his daily life," Fury said.

"I did," Phil confirmed, not liking where this was going.

"But you still have no idea what his daily life has consisted of for the past how many years?" Fury asked calmly.

"He dropped off the map about six years ago," Phil reported clinically.

Fury nodded. "In the event that I was actually considering this – which I am _not_ saying that I am – you know that my hands would be tied if I can't provide a complete history to the Council."

"I know," Phil assured him. "And I'm working on that."

"If he's not too keen on divulging, that's usually a red flag, Phil," Fury pointed out wearily.

"I truly don't believe that it's anything that would disqualify him from recruitment," Phil insisted. "He was barely ten years old when he ran away from a group home in the middle of rural Iowa, I highly doubt he's been running a drug cartel or became a hit man for the mob."

"And I highly doubt that he became an expert with a bow and arrow just for kicks," Fury countered.

Phil sighed. "I realize that."

"You remember when you first saw him he had just killed a man, right?" Fury pressed.

"I remember," Phil said. "But Bates—"

"I know, he was a bad guy that we were planning to kill anyway," Fury said, waving away the argument before it could be made. "But how many seventeen-year-old kids do you know who could take another human life on a whim like that? Without thinking twice, without batting an eye. Barton is a seventeen-year-old _kid_ who went for the kill shot on instinct. That concerns me."

"I understand that, sir," Phil admitted.

"And it concerns me that in addition to that, he's not talking about where he's been how he's gotten to this point," Fury went on. "There's a reason he won't talk about it. And in my experience, the reason is very rarely a good one."

"He just doesn't trust us yet," Phil said. "He's clearly been through a lot in his life and it's going to take time to build up enough trust for him to feel like he can open up. He shouldn't be penalized because he's careful about who he lets in." He met Fury's gaze evenly. "Look, we can debate the pros and cons of this all day. But the bottom line is, what's the harm in letting him take the rest of the tests and see if he even qualifies?"

"The harm is that I got a seventeen-year-old kid in my holding cell with no legal guardian that can give consent to any of this," Fury shot back.

"So, what do you propose?" Phil demanded. "We send him back into the system? Sir, you know he won't last a day there, given his history. He'll be back living on the streets in less than twenty-four hours, heading down a path that's going to get him in over his head. That kid will either end up locked up for the rest of his life or killed."

"Phil, this kid is _not_ our responsibility," Fury pressed. "We can't save every charity case out there, you know that."

"No, not out there," Phil agreed, waving a hand vaguely at the window before jabbing a finger at the file sitting on the desk. "But we have one kid in here that we have the opportunity to save. Who would we be if we didn't even try?"

"He's only in here because _you_ brought him here," Fury countered.

"And I only brought him here because he outshot two of our agents in the dead night with nothing more than a bow and arrow," Phil shot back. "You really want him out there for someone else to recruit?"

Fury was silent for a minute, simply studying him. Phil held his gaze steadily. This was something he felt strongly about, and he wasn't leaving his office without at least a strand of hope to hold onto.

"Let's say, _for the sake of argument_ , I decide to let you run with this, at least through the trials that we put every other potential recruit through," Fury finally said slowly, studying Phil the entire time. "How do you propose we get around the fact that this kid is still a minor and not only can't legally be recruited but also can't legally _be here_?"

Phil finally did have an answer to this question, an idea that only occurred to him in the dead night the night before. It was so simple and so obvious he honestly wasn't sure why it took him so long to come up with it.

"We just need to stall his departure from this facility for four months until he's a legal adult," Phil said calmly. "In the meantime, he can officially be considered detained in the detention wing in connection with an ongoing investigation into the Bates case."

Fury cocked a skeptical eyebrow at him. "Have you run this idea past Barton yet?"

"Not yet," Phil admitted. "But I'm sure I can get him to agree. We can list him as a low-threat detainee, able to leave the detention wing while in the custody of a SHIELD employee. We can use that to get him to complete all the trials we would have any other recruit would go through. He's already been through half of them anyway."

Fury was quiet once again. Finally, he sighed in resignation.

"Fine," he allowed. Phil couldn't help the triumphant grin that crossed his face. "He can stay and we will test and evaluate him. But his recruitment isn't a guarantee, Phil. Even if he passes all the trials, including a _psych evaluation_ ," Phil could hear the serious doubt in Fury's voice over that point, "he'll still need to complete his GED before anything can be offered to him."

"Understood, sir," Phil agreed immediately. "Thank you. You won't regret this."

"We'll see about that," Fury said, clearly unconvinced as he waved Phil off. "Now go pitch the idea of keeping him locked up for four months to Barton, because I'm sure that's going to go real well."

Phil turned and had almost made it to the door before Fury spoke again, causing him to pause.

"Also, bring here around here within the next day or two," he said. "I guess it's time I actually had that conversation with him."

"Yes, sir," Phil said, much less enthusiastically. He already knew that Fury and Barton would butt heads. Barton clearly had an issue with authority and Fury wouldn't take any of his bullshit. So, he resolved to put off that particular meeting as long as he could.

Despite that, he walked out of the office feeling a sense of accomplishment. He was finally on the path that he wanted to be on.

Now he just had to convince Barton that it was the path he wanted to be on as well.

He spent a few hours in the afternoon doing some prep work, decidedly optimistic about how this was going to go. Then around dinnertime he headed down to the cafeteria and grabbed two trays worth of food. Since the incident with Barton refusing meals, Phil had taken it upon himself to be the one to deliver the kid's meals. Not only that, but he brought his own meals with him and sat with Barton in his cell to eat. He had to build Barton's trust back up after unintentionally abandoning him for two days in the detention wing, and this was how Phil was able to show him that he understood his mistake and was actively trying to rectify the situation.

So far it seemed to be working reasonably well. Barton had begun to relax marginally in Phil's presence again and had eaten every meal offered without complaint. He still wasn't particularly chatty, but he would at least answer questions that were asked of him – though Phil had kept the subjects light and superficial so far. Overall, though, it was definitely an improvement.

But would it hold up against what Phil now needed to ask of Barton?

It was a smooth process getting him into the detention wing. At this point all the guards knew to expect him around mealtimes and knew that he would be bearing two trays of food, so there weren't any annoying questions he had to waste his time with. He greeted the guards on duty, scanned his ID card to document the visit, and then was immediately buzzed into the main hall of the detention wing.

"Chow time, Barton," Phil announced as he entered the cell.

As was now usual, Barton was standing up against the back wall of his cell waiting for him when he entered. Phil placed one tray of food on the foot of the cot before taking a seat in the chair he had brought in the day before and balancing his own tray on his lap. Normally, Barton would wait until he was seated before crossing the room and taking his own seat on the cot. But today he didn't. Trying not to think too much of it, Phil started in on his own meal.

"So?" Barton said after a few minutes, making no move to approach his own meal.

Phil paused to chew and swallow the bite he had just taken. "So, what?"

"You said that your boss gave you three days to clear all this shit up, right?" Barton said stiffly. He didn't wait for a response. "So, that was three days ago."

Phil nodded. "I just came from my meeting with the Director. He's optimistic about the evidence I was able to gather in your favor. I'll be sending the information to the judge in Chicago tonight and by tomorrow morning I'm willing to bet you'll be released as a person of interest in the case."

Barton nodded, his features guarded. "Does that mean that I get to get the hell out of here tomorrow?"

Phil paused for a moment before sighing and placing his tray with his half-eaten meal carefully on the floor next to his chair. Apparently, they were going to do this right now.

"Why don't you have a seat, Barton," he said, indicating the cot while fully expecting Barton to refuse the offer like he had every other time he had been asked to sit. That didn't mean he was going to stop trying though. "I want to talk to you about something."

"So, talk," Barton said shortly, crossing his arms over his chest, fixing him with an accusatory glare.

Guess they were going to get right to it.

"What do you want to do with your life?" Phil asked.

Barton raised his eyebrows, honestly taken back for a moment by the question. Clearly this wasn't where he had expected this conversation to go.

"Uh… what?" he finally said.

Judging by his reaction, Phil felt it was a pretty safe assumption that no one had ever posed that question to this kid.

"How is it you are planning on making a living for yourself as an adult?" Phil asked calmly.

Barton shrugged one shoulder. "I get by just fine out there."

"The fact that I could only catch up with you while you were in jail or prison is a pretty strong indicator that you can't," Phil said bluntly. He paused, but Barton made no effort to respond. "So, you just plan on being a drifter for the rest of your life? You really think that's a solid long-term plan?"

"Not everyone has the luxury of having a normal life," Barton said darkly. "Some people just… aren't built for that." His tone waivered, as if he were about to say something different.

"Well, I don't know much about a normal life," Phil admitted. "Normal is just a matter of opinion anyway. But, what if I told you that I could offer you an opportunity to try and do something meaningful with your life? A job, a career path even. One that will not only give you stability but will enable you to help people."

Barton just stared at him for a moment. "I'd say that you sound like your full of shit."

"And why would you say that?" Phil asked evenly, undeterred.

"Because nobody hands out the perfect all-American dream on a silver platter without getting something in return," Barton said.

"This will not be handed to you," Phil clarified. Barton raised his eyebrows at that. "I said I wanted to offer you the _opportunity_. All our potential recruits go through a rigorous screening process and must complete several tests and trials before being offered a position within SHIELD. I am offering you that same opportunity. But you bring up a fair point. I am in fact expecting something in return. I'm in the business of ridding this world of evil people. Every time I recruit someone into the organization, it's with the idea that they will help in that goal. What I'm hoping to get out of this deal is another person who will help me to try and make this world a better and safer place for those who live in it."

Barton cocked a curious eyebrow at that. "Well, that sounds swell, mister," he said, mockingly pitching his voice high like child before going on in a normal tone. "But I think you're forgetting one small detail. I'm only seventeen. I'm guessing if the military won't let me enlist until eighteen, your super-secret spy club won't either."

"Did you plan on enlisting in the military when you turned eighteen?" Phil asked.

"No," Barton said immediately and firmly.

"Why not?" Phil asked curiously. It seemed like it would have been a natural path for Barton to follow, considering it's the one his older brother took. As much as he wanted to though, he was careful not to mention that thought, mindful of how Barton tended to rebel when Phil revealed how much he knew about him. That certainly wouldn't help him right now.

Barton shrugged, but there was something sharp about his gaze. "Don't think they'd want me." He paused before going on quickly. "I'm not good with being told what to do."

Phil nodded. He suspected that he wasn't getting the entire truth, but he needed Barton's cooperation right now, so he decided not to pursue it.

"We're not quite as strict as the military," Phil told him diplomatically. "Yes, you'll be assigned your missions and given parameters, but you'll also have a certain amount of freedom to decide how you want to carry out each mission."

Barton just looked at him skeptically for a minute.

" _Seventeen_ , remember?" he pointed out. "Not legally allowed to be in charge of my own goddamn life."

"I know," Phil said sympathetically. "If there was more time, I'd be helping you through the emancipation process to get you legally recognized as an adult. But, with you turning eighteen in just over four months, there really isn't time for that. But, I do have another option for you."

Barton sighed as he walked forward. "Why do I get the feeling I'm not gonna like this," he muttered as he carefully perched on the edge of the end of the cot, as far from Phil as he could be.

"Because you're not," Phil admitted. Barton looked surprised by the blunt honesty, but Phil saw no reason to beat around the bush at this point. "The problem is that once we release you from our custody we are obligated to turn you over to Child Protective Services of the state of New York for placement in the system. So, my idea is simply to not release you. We can keep you here until you turn eighteen, and then once you do and after you complete the recruitment process we can immediately integrate you into our training program."

Barton just stared at him for a solid minute before he seemed to figure out how to respond to that.

"So… you want to keep me out of state custody… by keeping me locked in this room for four months?" Barton said slowly, shooting him a skeptical look. "Not that that doesn't sound like a _ton_ of fun…"

"I promise you, it'll just be for show," Phil assured quickly. "Yes, _officially_ you will be considered a prisoner here, but that will just be on paper until we are legally able to recruit you as an adult."

"So, I _won't_ be locked in this room?" Barton pressed, eyeing him critically.

Phil sighed. He knew this was going to be a hard sell. "No, you will be. But you will be allowed to leave as long as you're accompanied by a SHIELD staff member."

Barton rolled his eyes at that. "Oh joy. As long as I have someone to hold my hand it sounds like an absolute goddamn blast!" Phil winced at the heavy sarcasm dripping from the very fake enthusiasm.

"It's not going to be like that," Phil said. "We're going to work this out so that you are as comfortable as possible. We'll get a more comfortable bed in here, a desk, even a T.V. if you want one. This will act as your temporary bedroom, but I will be here every day to escort you out into the compound where you'll be able make use of the training facilities."

Barton still looked far for convinced. "So, you're going to just follow me around every day for the next four and a half months? You really have nothing better to do?"

"Not for the next four and a half months I don't," Phil said evenly.

That made Barton pause for a long moment, looking at him contemplatively. Phil held his gaze, trying to appear as open as he could. He needed this kid to trust him if he had a prayer of getting this to work.

"Why?" Barton finally asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"Why what?" Phil asked patiently.

"Why are you so invested in this?" Barton demanded, suddenly sounding inexplicably angry. "Why do you care? You could just toss me back in the system and go on with your life. So, why don't you?"

Phil took a minute to carefully think over his words before he finally spoke.

"You are a very gifted young man. I see immense potential in you, potential to not only be a valuable asset to this organization, but also to be an exceptional person." He leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. He didn't miss the way that Barton leaned back slightly in response, despite the distance between them. "I also see you going down a very bad path. I get that you're out there trying to do some good in the world, but the way that you're going about it is going to get you killed. So, the real question is, why don't you let us help you? We will train you to track down and take out the bad guys better than anyone else ever could. If you join us, you will make a difference in this world, I promise you that."

Barton was quiet for a moment as he seemed to think that over. Then his eyes wandered to the closed door of the cell.

"What happens if I decide that I don't want to be recruited," he started slowly, "if I decide I don't want this… will you let me go?" There was just a hint of vulnerability in his tone, so slight that Phil wasn't so sure that he hadn't imagined it.

Phil sighed. "If you decide that, then yes, of course you will be released. However, you have to remember that _legally_ we are obligated to release minors into the care of a guardian. In the event that we can't do that, as is the case here, then we are obligated to turn you over to state custody for placement at their discretion. There is no way around that."

Barton snorted derisively at that. "Like that would matter."

"Well, given your history as a flight risk, I would imagine they would place you in a more secure location," Phil pointed out. "It might not be as easy to run away from this time."

"I always liked a challenge," Barton said with a smirk.

Phil wanted to scream. It was like talking to a brick wall. He leaned back in his seat, carefully contemplating how he could convince this kid that what he was offering wasn't something to be scoffed at. Then, all at once, an idea hit him.

"Okay, how about this," he said as he quickly switched tactics. "We'll consider this a trial period. You can observe the training process, even participate in some of it at the discretion of our trainers. You can see first-hand what it is we do here. For the next four and a half months I'll make sure you have access to any and all information that you want about this program in order to make your decision. Then, when you turn eighteen and pending the completion of our recruitment process, you can choose what you want to do. You can take a job here and start your training or you can walk out the front door and do whatever you like with your life as a legal adult."

Barton cocked an incredulous eyebrow at that. "You're kidding me, right? You don't really expect me to buy that. I'm not dumb enough to think that you'd let me watch your super-secret organization for four months and then just let me walk away."

"You will observe activities within the compound within reason," Phil clarified. He didn't need to go on to explain that this was mostly just a training facility and as such they were no strangers to recruits not being able to cut it and having to drop out of the program. There wasn't much here that an outsider would learn that would be able to do any damage to the organization. "And if you do choose to leave at the end of the four months, you will be blindfolded and transferred out of the facility in order to keep the location confidential. To that end, you will also be strongly advised to stay inside over the course of your stay."

Barton fixed him with a hard stare that Phil couldn't quite read. After a minute of silence, Phil decided to press his luck.

"Look, what do you have to lose? Worst case scenario, this ends up as just a place to crash until you're a legal adult. There will be more opportunities out there for you when you're eighteen, legitimate ones even. Not to mention, there are worse places to call home for four months."

He wasn't sure if he imagined it, but he thought he saw something spark behind Barton's eyes at the word _home_.

Still, the kid hesitated. Phil just sat and waited. He had said everything that he could on the matter. He could not force Barton to stay if he didn't want to. It was up to him now.

The silence went on for a truly agonizing amount of time. Finally, Barton spoke.

"Okay," he said, and Phil felt the knot that had tied itself in his chest loosen just a fraction before Barton went on quickly. "But I'm saying yes with the understanding that I will _not_ spend another full day in this cell. Seriously, I will crawl the goddamn walls in here. You – or someone else, I don't care – will be here first thing every damn day to let me the hell out of this room."

"I will do my best to be here every single day, but, in the event that I can't, I will make absolutely sure that someone else comes in my place," Phil vowed. "You will sleep in here and you will take your meals in here, but that will be the extent of it."

"I mean it," Barton went on to insist as if he hadn't spoken. " _One_ day… you leave me in here even one more entire day and I'm out."

"That's fair," Phil agreed.

"I want new clothes too," Barton went on suddenly as if the thought had just occurred to him. "I am not spending the next four months in this jumpsuit." He indicated the Detroit Detention Center prison jumpsuit he was still wearing.

"That can be arranged," Phil agreed easily.

"No more handcuffs either," Barton asserted. "You're gonna have to take the risk that I won't snap someone's neck walking down the hallways."

Phil nodded. "You'll officially be considered a low-risk detainee. No handcuffs will be necessary when you're signed out of the detention wing by a SHIELD employee."

"And my bow," Barton added firmly. "I want my bow back."

At that, Phil hesitated and Barton narrowed his eyes at him.

"You cannot bring weapons into the detention wing," Phil told him. "But, you will have full access to your bow and arrows while you're at the shooting range, which you can visit every day if you want to."

"Where are you gonna keep them?" Barton demanded.

"They'll be locked in my office," Phil assured him. "No one will have access to them but you."

Barton considered this carefully for a moment. Phil was wondering if that would be a deal breaker when he spoke again, surprising him.

"Fine," he relented, though he sounded a bit reluctant.

"So, we have a deal?" Phil prompted cautiously.

Barton nodded his head once. "Yes, we do."

"Good," Phil said with a relieved smile, holding out his hand. But Barton did not reach out to shake it. Instead he glanced down at the hand and then back up at Phil, frowning. "You… do know how to shake hands, right?" he asked slowly, remembering how he had gotten a similar reaction when he had first met Barton in Virginia and tried to shake his hand.

"Yes," Barton said stiffly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Phil paused for a moment, then upon seeing that Barton still showed no interest in his outstretched hand, he dropped it back down.

"Okay, then," Phil allowed. He didn't understand the aversion, but he figured he probably shouldn't push his luck any farther than he already had. He stood up and Barton followed him with his gaze. "I have some arrangements to make. I'll be back in about an hour and then we can take walk around and I can better show you the facilities." He paused, taking in Barton's carefully blank expression. "That okay?"

Barton shrugged both shoulders, pushing himself back on the cot until he was resting his back against the wall behind him. "You know where to find me."

"Don't forget to eat your dinner while I'm gone," Phil reminded him, only realizing after the words were out of his mouth how annoyingly parental he sounded. But he definitely did not want a repeat of having to hook Barton up to an IV to keep him from becoming malnourished and dehydrated.

Barton – to his credit – simply rolled his eyes as he reached over and grabbed some French fries from his tray. Satisfied, Phil went to the door and waved to request his release.

It ended up taking a little more than an hour to accomplish what he wanted. He realized that these were odd requests that he was making that most people on the base weren't sure what to do with. But, in the end, he felt that he had done all he could. He went to retrieve Barton from the cell, finding the kid pacing restlessly when he arrived.

For the first time, he led Barton from his cell without handcuffs. He knew he was jumping the gun a bit, Barton technically wouldn't be considered a low-threat detainee until the morning when they got the all clear from the judge in Chicago. But he didn't want to risk the tentative trust he had just built back up with Barton. He knew he was asking a lot of this kid. Something about being in that cell had caused him to mentally shut down to the point where he almost starved himself. He knew that asking him to trust that Phil would have him out of that cell as much as humanly possible over the next four months was probably testing Barton's limits.

But the fact that he agreed at all gave him hope. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Barton was obviously tempted by what Phil was offering him. He just had to somehow convince him that it was worth the leap. Committing to stay here for four months was one thing… he knew that getting the kid to commit to joining the training program would be an entirely different beast.

However, if he could get him that far… Phil just knew that the kid would find a place here.

They spent a solid two hours going through the base. Phil showed him the various training rooms, cafeteria, gyms, weight rooms, several shooting ranges, even gave him a glimpse where the techs worked. Mostly he was just killing time, but Barton seemed quietly yet acutely fascinated by each new facet of the base that they came upon.

Finally, as the hour grew late he led Barton back down to the detention wing.

As they entered to find the new furnishings that Phil had requested, Phil was pleased to see actual and honest surprise flash across the kid's face. He hoped that was a good sign.

As Barton walked into the cell to inspect the new accommodations, Phil took a moment to take it in himself. He was pretty impressed by what they had been able to pull together on such short notice. They had pulled the cot out of the cell, but the space was too small to accommodate even a twin bed. But Jac had managed to find a hospital bed that wasn't being used that was a bit narrower, so as not to take up too much space. Phil had been careful to instruct not to use hospital linens to cover the bed, instead insisting on normal bedding from the recruit wing. It was obviously a little big for the bed, but it would work. There was also a small desk pushed into one corner with some basic office supplies, mostly pens, pencils and notebooks. Phil would bring more supplies as he found out more of what the kid needed. A footlocker sat at the foot of the bed that Phil knew would be filled with some standard issue clothing.

It was a good start, Phil decided.

"What do you think?" Phil asked as Barton moved around the room. Barton didn't look at him, instead shrugging one shoulder noncommittedly. Phil went on after a minute of silence. "It'll take me a few extra days to arrange a television and cable down here."

Barton shook his head. "Don't bother. I don't need that."

Phil nodded, not terribly surprised by the sentiment. The kid had been living on the streets for at least the last year and a half. It made sense that he wouldn't really understand the appeal of indulging in mindless television like most teenagers would.

"Do you like to read?" Phil ventured cautiously, looking for anything to give this kid some kind of connection with this place and a reason not to resent this cell during the unavoidable time he would spent here. "I could get you some books down here for any downtime you might have." Barton hesitated at that, looking suddenly uncomfortable by the question.

"Sometimes," he finally said vaguely, not looking at him as he suddenly seemed very interested in studying the desk.

Phil nodded. "What's an example book that you like? So, I can look for something similar."

"I read… _Bridge to Terabithia_ ," he said quietly after a pause.

Phil smiled. "I've read that myself. It's a good book, though a very sad ending." Barton glanced at him, almost as if he were unsure if he was being serious. Clearly the kid was self-conscious about his low reading level. _Bridge to Terabithia_ was generally read by elementary school aged kids. "I'll bring you some more books I think you'll like tomorrow."

Barton nodded, still looking vaguely suspicious of the offer. "Sounds okay."

"Good," Phil said. He glanced at his watch. "It's getting late. You should find several changes of clothes in that footlocker. I'll leave you to get reacquainted with the place and I'll see you first thing tomorrow morning."

Barton didn't respond, and Phil hadn't expected him to. But as he turned and headed out of the room, he couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. Finally, it seemed that everything was falling into place.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Famous last words, right? Hahaha! Okay, so as you already know, the next chapter is not written yet… but the way that my crazy brain works, I have everything from little snippets to entire chapters from later in the story already written. So fair warning, the sneak peek is a little random snippet that I THINK is going to be in the next chapter, but I can't guarantee it. But I wanted to at least give you guys a little something! Please don't forget to leave a review and let me know what you think and I'll hopefully get my butt in gear and get the next chapter going here soon!

* * *

 _ **Chapter Seven Sneak Peek**_

"So, I assume your training will include combat?" Jac asked wearily.

"Nothing intensive but I'll probably introduce him to some sparring," Phil said.

"Well, here's my advice on that," Jac said. "Do not take a swing at him. Even when you're sparring. You let him punch and kick and whatever else you agent-types do, but you don't reciprocate until you've earned more of his trust."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** Hello everybody! I'm back! I'm pretty proud that my delay was only a week longer than usual, considering I only really started to put this chapter together at the beginning of the week. But I lucked out and was able to pull a couple scenes that I had already written and just hadn't figured out where to put yet, haha.

Alright, no rambling this time, let's move this right along! Special shout outs to those who took the time to review the last chapter! **ELOSHAZZY** ; **Hatter5151** ; **TheRedScreech** ; **XYZArtemis** ; and **utemia**! You guys are awesome, and I very much appreciate the feedback!

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

"You're up late."

Jac looked up from her desk as Phil leaned in the doorway to her office. She snorted through her nose, shaking her head as she motioned to the mess of papers covering her desk.

"SHIELD has more paperwork than all of my internships combined," she sighed.

"Well, we do like to be thorough," Phil said with a small smile.

"There's thorough and then there's obsessive," Jac countered, rolling her eyes. Then she focused back on Phil. "Why are _you_ up so late?"

"I was heading back to my quarters after giving Barton the official tour," Phil told her. "Thought I might stop by and see if you were around. I thought you might like an update on the situation, considering I made you an accomplice."

"Well, since he got the tour, I'm assuming he's going to be sticking around," Jac observed, leaning back in her chair.

"For the time being," Phil said diplomatically. "I convinced Fury to give him a trial run and then I had to convince Barton to give SHIELD a chance. The catch is he's still considered a detainee in the detention wing in order to get around the fact that we'd have to turn him over to CPS if we released him."

Jac's eyebrows went up at that. "And he agreed to that?" she asked skeptically.

"It took some persuading along with some mild bribery," Phil admitted. "I had to promise that he would only sleep and take meals in that cell, other than that he would have free reign within the facility as long as he had an escort."

"An escort," Jac repeated, looking about as convinced as Barton had when Phil had first presented the idea. "What, are you going to prom?"

Phil had to roll his eyes at that.

"It's the best option I could come up with, given the circumstances," he defended. "In any case, I will be there as often as I can to make sure we don't have a repeat of his hunger strike from the other day. Hopefully that will equate to every day until he turns eighteen in four months…" He paused, looking at Jac who was giving him a knowing look. She already knew why he was really here. "I wondered if you might be able to help out if there's a day or two where I'm unable to sign him out of the detention wing?"

"Do I even have that authority?" Jac asked dryly.

"I'll make sure that you do," Phil assured her. "If you want to, of course. I know I've kind of roped you into this whole thing."

"No, it's fine," Jac said sighed. "I'll hang with Barton if you need me too. At least with Barton it feels like I'm actually able to do something."

Phil frowned at that. "Do you want me to talk to somebody?" he asked carefully, unsure if he was overstepping. "You're a talented doctor, you shouldn't have to fight to get off the sidelines."

Jac waved that off immediately. "I'm a big girl," she assured him. "I can handle this myself." Phil nodded. When he didn't move, Jac arched an eyebrow at him. "Was there something else you wanted?"

"There isn't any way that you could be the one to do his mandatory psyche evaluation, is there?" he asked without much hope.

Jac shook her head. "I don't have anywhere near those qualifications. Barton's going to have to figure out how to play nice with one of the staff shrinks to get passed that particular hurdle." She paused. "Isn't that kind of the point, anyway? If you want him to be an agent, he's going to have to learn to interact with other people."

"Yeah, I know that," Phil admitted reluctantly. "I just feel like I should protect him, you know? And I haven't been doing such a great job of that so far."

"Well, I would assume this is new territory for you," Jac allowed. "The kid's still alive, so I'd say that the job you're doing is at least passable." Phil snorted a laugh at that. "But seriously, most people wouldn't look twice at a kid like Barton. I'd say the fact that you're even trying gets you ample bonus points in this situation."

"I appreciate that," Phil said.

Jac paused, seeming to think over her words carefully before she spoke again. "Now, don't get me wrong," she started slowly. "I'm all kinds of rooting for this kid. But…"

"Go ahead," Phil encouraged when she hesitated. "I'd appreciate your honesty."

"Barton completely shut down in the detention wing the other day," she pointed out. "We still have no idea why exactly. Are you really sure that this kid is well adjusted enough to even be an agent?"

"I'm not," Phil admitted. Jac seemed honestly taken aback by his bluntness. "I honestly had no idea what I was getting myself into when I decided to bring him in. And there's still every chance that this whole thing is going to blow up in my face. But… I just have this gut feeling that this is where he's supposed to be."

"That's all well and good," Jac said, still sounding skeptical. "But maybe your gut feeling could be aided by some actual facts. Have you tried talking to anyone from Barton's past? I'm not usually one for snooping around in someone's business without their permission, but I also don't want to see this kid get thrown into a situation that he's not equipped to deal with."

"His brother is currently deployed in the army," Phil said. "I've got a call in to them to have him contact me, but so far I haven't heard anything."

"Well, he was in state custody at some point in his life, right?" Jac said. Phil simply nodded. "An old social worker might have some insight then."

Phil nodded. "That's not a bad idea." He paused. "You got any other helpful tips when it comes to dealing with Barton?"

"I don't know any more about Barton than you do," she said with a shrug.

"I know that," Phil said. "I just… you just seem to have a better idea with how to deal with this kind of situation. I feel like I'm way out of my depth here. I'm just never around kids, you know? Let alone abused kids."

"I'm not an expert on abused kids, Phil," Jac said.

"I know," Phil said. "But it just seemed like… you understood him a little better than I do."

The implication was there, and Phil honestly wasn't sure how she would react. After all, he had only known this woman for a few days. Jac paused as she seemed to consider him carefully. Finally, she turned in her seat to better face him, indicating a chair in the corner of her office.

"Why don't you have a seat," she offered.

"I don't mean to be forward," Phil said as he took the seat. "But you did allude that perhaps someone you've known has been through something similar."

"I did," she agreed. "It's no secret. Especially not with the kind of background checks that SHIELD does." She took a deep breath. "I can't imagine that it's anything like what Barton's been through though. My dad took off when I was around five or so. My mom dealt with it by drinking herself half to death. Because it would have been too easy for her to simply drink herself completely to death. And, just so it wouldn't get too dull, every so often she'd bring home a new boyfriend with anger issues." She paused. "I was taken out of her care three times over the years and placed into foster care. Each time she would call it a wakeup call and would clean up her act. She'd get a couple chips from AA and then petition for custody. Judges love placing kids back with their biological parents because it frees up room in the system for all the kids who don't have that option." She met Phil's eyes was a calm expression. "The first time I looked up the emancipation process, I was twelve. I never ended up going through with it, but it was damn tempting on many occasions."

"I'm sorry that you went through all that," Phil said sincerely.

Jac waved him off. "We all have our baggage. I'm not looking for sympathy points here. I just want you to understand that yes, I do have an idea of what it's like to be an abused kid. But something tells me that Barton's story will make mine look like nothing more than the first ten minutes of a Disney movie where they kill off the parents to give the kids something to overcome. I managed to escape my childhood with relatively few scars – both mental and physical – but with Barton, along with the obvious physical scars, he definitely has some serious mental scarring as well. I'm no expert, but he's certainly shown symptoms of post-traumatic stress. It's not going to be as easy as recruiting him and just sending him into the training program here. He's going to have to deal with his shit if he's going to be able to be successful here."

Phil nodded, but he was frowning. "But how do I help him do that?"

"Well, the fact that you have to wait for him to turn eighteen actually works in your favor," Jac said. "It'll give him time to get used to this place and build up trust with people here. I'd start introducing him to the ideas of having a routine and the kinds of things that will be expected of him."

Phil nodded. "I was intending on doing something like that anyway. I was going to hopefully get him into most of the training that he'll go through if he decides he wants to be recruited."

Jac nodded. "I assume your training will include combat?" she asked wearily.

"Nothing intensive but I'll probably introduce him to some sparring," Phil said.

"Well, here's my advice on that," Jac said. "Do _not_ take a swing at him. Even when you're sparring. You let him punch and kick and whatever else you agent-types do, but you don't reciprocate until you've earned more of his trust."

Phil nodded. He hadn't thought of that, but it made sense.

"Really, all you can do is get to know him and hope that he'll start to open up to you," Jac said.

"I appreciate all your help with this," Phil said sincerely.

Jac gave him a shrug. "Not exactly the work that I thought I would be doing when joining a secret government agency, but at least it's something."

"Trust me, this isn't a situation I ever saw myself dealing with either," Phil assured her as he stood up. "I won't keep you any longer."

"Just let me know when you need me to babysit," Jac said as she turned back to her paperwork.

Phil laughed. "Do me a favor and never call it that in front of Barton," he said as he made his way back out of the office.

"Wouldn't dream of it!" Jac called after him.

* * *

The next morning, Phil stopped by the cafeteria to pick up breakfast before heading down to the detention wing bright and early. Upon first glance through the small window in the door of the cell, Phil didn't see any sign of Barton though. The bed was not only empty, but the covers were made. This seemed odd. Barton hadn't really struck Phil as an 'impeccably made bed' kind of seventeen-year-old.

He heard the telltale buzz of the lock disarming and reached and opened the door. He took one step into the cell and stopped.

"Good morning," Phil greeted.

Barton was standing right next to the door, leaning one shoulder casually against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He was dressed, though he held a change of clothes pinned under one arm.

"About time," Barton said.

"Sorry," Phil said, arching an eyebrow. "Didn't peg you as an early riser. I'll be earlier tomorrow."

Barton merely rolled his eyes at that. He pushed off the wall and strode out of the cell. "I need to take a shower."

"I brought breakfast," Phil pointed out.

"Shower first," Barton called over his shoulder as he was already heading down the hallway.

Phil placed the tray of food down on the nearby desk before he turned and hurried after the kid. By the time he caught up with him, he was already halfway to the security door.

"You can use the showers attached to one of the training gyms," he informed him.

"So, how far does this supervision thing go?" Barton asked casually as Phil waved at the camera at the door, signaling they should be let out. "Do you have to come into the bathroom with me? 'Cause honestly, mister, that just doesn't seem okay."

Phil rolled his eyes at the mockingly childish tone and sarcasm dripping off Barton's voice. The door buzzed, and he reached forward and pushed it open, leading the way out of the detention wing.

"No, I'm not going in with you," he assured him.

They paused long enough for Phil to sign Barton out of the wing, taking responsibility for him, before he led him out into the base. The closest training gym to the detention wing was one that was set up to test agents' agility. Most of the area was wide open and padded and was generally used to practice more complicated sparring moves. Then off to one side was a small parkour obstacle course that was really only used during bad weather when the full-sized, outdoor one couldn't be utilized. That meant that this morning this particular room was deserted.

Phil caught the hungry look in Barton's eyes as his eyed the obstacle course.

"Shower and then breakfast," Phil reminded him as he indicated the nearby changing room. "Then, if you want, we can come back here and you can run the obstacle course." He was careful to sensor himself and not say 'play on the obstacle course.' He wasn't sure how much longer Barton would tolerate the kid jokes and he was conscious of the fact that he needed to put him and Barton on an even playing field if he wanted to earn his trust.

"I want to shoot my bow today too," Barton said shortly as he turned his back to Phil and headed for the changing room.

"That can be arranged," Phil agreed even as Barton disappeared into the room.

It was a quick twenty minutes later when Barton reappeared with wet hair and fresh clothes. Phil smiled as he was just hanging up his cell phone.

"I just got word from the judge in Chicago," he informed him as he approached. "You've officially been cleared as a person of interest in the case."

Phil was fully expecting some kind of sarcastic remark to come from the kid. What he did not expect was the look of relief that overtook his features for just a moment.

"Thanks," Barton said quietly, not quite looking at Phil.

So, he had been worried about what would happen if Phil couldn't clear his name.

"You're welcome," Phil returned sincerely. "Now, shall we have some breakfast?"

Barton was obviously reluctant to leave the room, but didn't argue as Phil led him back to the cell. He had never seen the kid inhale his meal so quickly, and soon enough they were retracing their steps back to the nearby agility training room.

The room was still deserted when they returned. The weather outside was finally warming up after a harsh winter, so Phil figured most people were taking the opportunity to train outside today.

Phil hung back, giving the kid some room as he approached the course, walking along side it as he studied each obstacle critically. He reached the far end of the course, paused and then approached.

"You're supposed to start from the other side," Phil pointed out.

"This way looks more fun," Barton said as he started climbing the underside of a steep incline that was supposed to be the final obstacle, using the braces on the bottom as hand and foot holds.

"Impressive," Phil murmured to himself as he watched Barton climb up and over the edge of the incline with little trouble.

Phil settled in to watch. What he was most surprised by was how graceful Barton was as he moved through the course. He had honestly expected more of a clumsy teenager, but Barton tackled each obstacle as if he had been doing this specific course for months. He watched as Barton completed the course backward. Then he turned around and ran through forward, and even though Phil wasn't timing him, he knew it had to have been faster than the first time. Then he repeated the backward path, finding new and more creative ways to get from one obstacle to the other. After running the course backward and forward a few more times, Barton began to entertain himself by seemingly searching for more difficult ways to navigate the course, even going so far as to figure out how to skip entire obstacles.

It was fascinating to watch.

It was a solid two hours later, and Barton showed no sign of slowing. Clearly the kid had a lot of pent up energy from spending so much time in that cell. Phil was starting to suspect why Barton had shut down after being stuck in that small room for so long. Watching him now, it was clear that this kid was meant to move.

Phil was startled out of his thoughts as his phone began to ring. He fished out his phone and glanced at the caller ID. It wasn't a number he recognized, but he did recognize the area code and suspected he knew who was calling.

"I need to take this," Phil said quickly, glancing up at Barton who was looking down at him from where he was perched precariously at the top of one of the obstacles. "I'll be right out in the hallway if you need me."

When Barton didn't seem concerned by Phil's leaving, instead simply shrugging as he launched himself from the obstacle to a rope ladder about ten feet away, Phil turned headed for the door. He waited until he was fully in the hallway with the door shut before he answered, glancing through the window in the door to be sure he could still keep an eye on Barton.

"Coulson."

"Mr. Coulson, this is Connie Hanson from Child Protective Services in Waverly, Iowa returning the message you left me last night."

"Yes, thank you for calling me back," Phil said.

"Of course, Mr. Coulson," Connie said, though she sounded a bit distracted. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm hoping that you can help me with some information on one of your old cases," Phil said. "The name is Barton."

"Old case?" Connie said. "How old?"

"He was placed in the system about seven years ago," Phil told her.

"Okay, hold on," Connie said, and Phil could hear the clicking of a keyboard in the background. There was a pause. "I've got a Charles and Clinton Barton, two brothers that were placed in the system around that time."

"Yes, that's them," Phil confirmed. "I have a copy of their file, but it doesn't give me a lot of information. I was hoping that you might be able to fill in some gaps."

"I get a lot of cases running across my desk, Mr. Coulson," Connie said tiredly. "I can't say I remember much about this one from so long ago." There was a pause. "Although, this case is actually from before we had our current computer system. There's probably a physical file in the archives that might have more information."

"If you could locate that I would really appreciate it," Phil said.

"What's your interest?" Connie asked curiously. "According to the electronic file the two brothers were declared runaways after about three years in the system and to date they haven't been recovered. The older one would have left the system by now anyway."

"Just looking into a suspect in one of my cases," Coulson said vaguely. "Might have a connection with one of your runaways."

"Alright, give me a few minutes to see if I can dig up the file."

Phil was on hold for a solid twenty minutes, glancing through the window and into the training room anxiously every few minutes to make sure he could still see Barton climbing around the equipment. He was just contemplating giving up, when Connie came back on the line.

"Still there, Mr. Coulson?"

"Yes, I am," Phil said.

"Impressive, I guess you really do need this information," Connie said lightly. There was the sound of rustling papers in the background. "I did manage to dig up their original files." She paused. "Looking at their pictures here, they do look familiar."

"I know that they were placed in four different homes over the course of about three and a half years," Coulson said, striving to move the conversation along. "Do you have any insight into why they were moved around so much?"

Connie sighed. "Unfortunately, that's not uncommon, especially when trying to place siblings. It can be tough to find places that will agree to take multiple kids at one time. It's much easier to place individuals, but we still try our best to keep siblings together when we can." She paused as the papers rustled again in the background. "Yes, I'm remembering these two now. They were initially placed in a group home, because we were unable to find a foster family willing to take in both of them. The older brother was eleven at the time, once a kid gets past around ten it begins to get more difficult to place the child. So, in order to keep the two together we focused on group homes, which are much easier to place multiple children in."

"But they weren't in their first group home for very long," Phil said, straining to remember the file and wishing he had brought it with him. But he had read it enough times at this point that he had a pretty good idea of the overview. "Less than a year, wasn't it?"

"Yes, only six months" Connie confirmed. "There's a note here about issues with the other boys in the home. That is not terribly unusual, if the kids don't get along with each other it can make things very difficult. When things got out of hand, the caretaker of the home requested the move."

"So, they were placed in another group home," Phil prodded.

"Yes," Connie confirmed. "They were in the second group home for about two years."

"And why were they moved from that home?" Phil asked.

There was a heavy pause. "It seems the caretaker of that home became subject to an investigation," she said clinically. "There was suspected abuse. In accordance to protocol, all the boys were immediately removed from the home and re-placed."

" _Suspected_ abuse?"

"The accusations were never proven," Connie said. "It can be difficult to build and pursue a case like this, not to mention costly. The caretaker's license was revoked, possibly in a deal made to not take the case to court."

Phil had to swallow back his anger. A caretaker of a group home for orphans was accused of abuse and they never even took him to court about it? How was that right?

"Next I believe they were placed with a foster family," Phil said, trying to move along the conversation, knowing that if he dwelled too much on this one aspect he was probably going to do or say something that would end the conversation before he got the rest of the information that he needed.

"Yes," Connie said. "There was a stroke of luck with that. One of our families that took in a lot of our at-risk cases had just become available and agreed to take both boys. It was an older couple who had a lot of success with some of our more difficult cases."

"Wait, why were the Barton boys considered at-risk?" Phil asked. It seemed to him that they hadn't done anything wrong up to that point.

"There are a lot of factors that go into that assessment," Connie explained. "It's based on the age in which they enter the system, as the older kids placed in the system are more likely to rebel. They had also been placed in multiple homes in a relatively short amount of time, which causes stress and makes it more likely for kids to act out. The two of them being requested to be re-placed by their first caretaker was another indicator. There had also been some disciplinary issues throughout their placement. All this added together considered them at-risk."

"But they didn't last long in that foster home," Phil pointed out.

Connie sighed. "No, they didn't. I remember being very hopeful for this placement. I made a couple visits to check up on them and they seemed to be doing great. Unfortunately, the foster mother in the home suffered a very sudden heart attack and passed away about six months after the boys were placed. They stayed in the home for a few weeks afterward, but ultimately the foster father decided to voluntarily withdraw from the system, so the boys had to be re-placed."

"That must have been hard on them," Phil said quietly, almost forgetting about the woman on the other end of the line.

"It was," Connie said sympathetically. "Especially on the younger one. I have a note here about suspected post-traumatic stress."

"Suspected?" Phil said, confused. "It wasn't confirmed?"

"Well, it's a hard to make a definitive diagnosis when the child stops speaking. As far as I know, the younger Barton didn't say another word after the death of his foster mother. In fact, he stopped communicating at all. We had him meet with a child psychologist while in placement in his next group home, but there wasn't much she could do when he wouldn't acknowledge her. She started to talk about putting him on medication and perhaps even check him into a hospital. But after only a couple months in that group home, him and his brother disappeared."

Phil closed his eyes for a moment. He knew that Barton hadn't had a warm and loving childhood. But this was worse than he had expected. He couldn't imagine how traumatized a child had to be in order to stop even trying to communicate.

"I appreciate your help, Miss Hanson," Phil finally said.

"Mr. Coulson… did you find them?" Connie asked carefully.

That was a tricky question. It seemed like this woman really did care. But if he told her what was going on, she'd be obligated to make a report… and more paperwork was not something that Phil needed in this situation.

"I know that the elder Barton joined the army when he turned eighteen and is currently serving overseas," Phil said, because that was something that someone could easily find out. "But the younger Barton…" Phil's eyes flicked to the door to the training room. "I believe he's still lost."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Connie said. "Despite everything, they were a couple of sweet kids. I wish we could have done more for them." She paused. "I need to get going, but feel free to call me if you have any other questions."

"Yes, I will, thanks very much," Phil said sincerely.

After he hung up, he paused for a moment. Pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, but not in a way that he had expected. Yes, there was the confirmation of abuse, but there was also a much bigger problem of abandonment. It was obviously something that ran so deep that when Barton lost his foster mother he stopped speaking… he shut down.

Phil stared at the door to the training room without really seeing it. Maybe the reason for Barton's incident while in the detention wing wasn't about his need to move around… but about a much deeper fear of abandonment. It would make sense. The kid had been shuffled around for his entire life. Phil now felt even more guilty for leaving him by himself in that room for so long.

Finally, he took a deep breath, knowing that he had already been gone for too long. He straightened his shoulders and steeled his expression before heading back into the room.

As he reentered the training room he glanced around… and his heart stopped.

"Barton?" he called carefully as his eyes wandered around parkour obstacle course he had left the kid on.

He had been distracted when talking to the social worker and hadn't glanced through the window since he had been taken off hold. And now, walking back in the room, it seemed for all intents and purposes to be completely empty. Phil glanced around the room to double check what he already knew: that there was only one door out of this room. He looked over at the changing room. He supposed it was possible Barton had just gone for a bathroom break. But after a few minutes, he was finding that theory unlikely. It wouldn't take a kid who was this eager to stretch his legs this long to use the bathroom.

He moved over to the course, searching the ground at the base of each obstacle, fearing that the kid had fallen and gotten hurt while he wasn't watching. He wasn't sure how he would forgive himself if that had happened.

He was just inspecting the final obstacle, when he heard it. Muffled laughter, as if someone was trying very hard to hold it back but not having much luck. Phil rolled his eyes as he instantly felt his blood pressure lower. Then he followed the noise, turning around and looking up.

And there he was. Sitting up in the crossbeams of the ceiling, swinging his feet lazily a good forty feet above the floor was Barton.

"You think that's funny?" Phil called up to him, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.

"A little," Barton admitted easily before letting an honest to goodness laugh escape, rocking backward on the beam he was sitting on in a way that made Phil lose his stomach.

Phil turned and gazed back at the parkour course. This room had been specially designed with abnormally high ceilings to accommodate the equipment. None of the obstacles even came close to the ceiling.

"How in the hell did you get up there?" Phil honestly wondered as he turned back to look up at the kid.

Barton smirked down at him. "I'm resourceful."

"Clearly," Phil observed. Then he noticed something and glanced around again, still struggling to take in the situation. He spotted Barton's shoes and socks tossed thoughtlessly on the ground near the course. "Why'd you take your shoes off?"

"The traction sucked," Barton said with a shrug.

"Ah," Phil said as if this made any sense. He paused. "You gonna sit up there all day? Because if you are, I'm going to go grab a book to read."

"You do that," Barton said lightly as he leaned back, laying down flat on the beam and bracing one foot up while letting the other one hang. "I'm gonna take a nap."

Phil rolled his eyes at that.

"C'mon, Barton," he implored. He checked his watch. "It's almost lunchtime anyway. Come on down and we can eat and then hit the shooting range."

"Fine," Barton sighed as he sat back up.

Phil thought that Barton would swing his feet up onto the beam and either crawl or carefully stood up if he was feeling adventurous. But instead, as he was sitting with both feet hanging down into the open air, Barton braced one hand on either side of him and then pushed his body straight up, folding his legs up underneath him, planting his feet on the beam and pushing himself straight up until he was standing. Then, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking for all the world like he was just strolling down the street, he walked along the beam, casually stepping from one to the other as they overlapped.

Phil tracked Barton's movements through the crossbeams in the ceiling as he made his way to the corner of the room. He watched as Barton carefully wedged himself into the corner, bracing his hands wide on either wall before carefully shifting his feet to adjacent walls and bracing his weight.

"That's…" Phil started, intending to tell the kid that what he was doing was not a good idea.

But the warning died on his lips as Barton was already carefully shuffling himself down the corner of the wall in a way that Phil didn't think should be physically possible. Phil took a couple steps closer, knowing full well that if the kid slipped and fell there wasn't going to be a damn thing he could do about it.

Barton got about a quarter of the way down – his muscles now noticeably straining to keep himself from slipping – before he suddenly launched himself out away from the wall. Phil felt himself go cold, all the color draining from his face as he watched helplessly. But, very suddenly, Barton turned his body in midair and then hit the top of one of the high walls on the parkour course, rolling to soften the landing as if it was a mile wide instead of just a foot. Then, as calmly as if he did this kind of thing every day, he climbed down the wall and then walked over to where Phil stood in shock.

"You okay, Coulson?" Barton asked as he eyed him a little unsurely.

Phil had the presence of mind to shut his mouth, which he just realized was hanging open.

"I'm pretty sure you just took five years off of my life," Phil finally said, his eyes tracking back up to where Barton had started his descent, then looked back at the lanky teenager who stood in front of him, still trying to reconcile what he had just witnessed. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Barton simply shrugged, his expression guarded.

Phil looked back up at the corner of the wall. There was no Barton have climbed up to the ceiling in that same fashion. Phil knew from experience that a Spider Climb was hard enough between two parallel walls. To think that this kid had accomplished that using just the corner of the wall while fighting the natural pull of gravity was simply impossible.

"Okay, then," Phil said, still sounding a bit unsteady, but focusing back on Barton. It was clear that he wasn't going to get any answers at the moment. "Lunch?"

He led Barton down to the cafeteria for the first time. It was just before a traditional lunchtime, so the room wasn't as packed as it usually was, but there were still a good number of people starting to trickle in.

Phil explained to Barton the process of moving through the cafeteria-style line, but the kid suddenly seemed to be only half listening to him, his eyes darting to track various people moving in the room. He followed Phil into the line and ended up just getting the same thing that Phil got, further solidifying Phil's suspicion that he hadn't actually been listening.

"Now I know you're not going to like this," Phil explained as they each picked up their trays of food. "But I've got to take you back down to the cell to eat. I'm trying to keep this mostly on the up and up, so if you're officially a detainee then food needs to be moving in and out of the detention wing for the sake of the paperwork."

"Yeah, okay," Barton mumbled, his eyes still wandering around the room.

Phil was honestly startled for a moment. He was fully expecting some kind of resistance to this. He studied Barton for a moment. Back in the training room, the kid had seemed almost like a normal teenager, running around with boundless energy and even pulling a prank clearly just to get one up on Phil. But something about Barton had tensed up and closed off when they had come into this room, and Phil had no idea why.

"Everything okay?" Phil asked carefully.

Barton nodded tersely before he started making his way out of the cafeteria, leaving Phil to hurry behind him. They made it most of the way back down to the detention wing before Barton spoke again.

"What happens if there's a fire?" he asked abruptly.

"What?" Phil asked, confused.

Barton jerked his head back in the direction that they had come from. "There's a kitchen in there. I'm sure things burn. What if there was a fire? There were only two sets of doors in and out of that room. When we left there were ninety-three people in there, with a lot more heading in as we were leaving, I assume for the lunch rush since we were a little early." He paused, thoughtful. "Would you use the windows? Or are there more exits back in the kitchen? Because if you're banking on those, they would be cut off in the event of a fire."

Phil blinked at him, struggling with which piece of information to take in first. "You _counted_ how many people were in there?" he finally asked.

Barton looked at him and arched an eyebrow. "You didn't?"

"I don't generally count exactly how many people are in a given room, no," Phil said slowly. Then he regrouped. "I guess if there was an emergency and people couldn't calmly walk out the doors, the next course of action would be to start opening the windows." He paused. "Those instincts will serve you well if you decide to become an operative. Spatial awareness is very important and it's always good to have an escape plan. But…" he hesitated before plowing forward, "you know that you'll also have to learn how to exist within those kinds of situations. Situations like crowded rooms without enough exits for everyone in case of an emergency."

Barton didn't seem bothered by the light criticism though. He shrugged one shoulder. "I can exist in those situations," he said. "If it came down to it, I was going up and out. The tables were high enough and ceilings low enough and there's always an exit through an exhaust vent. But, if I don't _have_ to exist in it… why bother?"

It was a fair point. Not to mention, it was probably the most honest and candid conversation that Phil had had with this kid so far. That had to be a good thing.

They were back in Barton's cell when Phil glanced around, something dawning on him.

"So, two of us and only one door out of this cell," he said conversationally as they ate. "What's the escape plan if there's an emergency in here?" Obviously, it was something Barton spent a lot of energy thinking about, and it was interesting to finally get a good idea of how the kid's mind worked.

Barton calmly finished chewing.

"I like the new bed," he said, nodding toward it. For a moment, Phil thought he had changed the subject. "I assume it came from the medical wing. It's easy to move, it could easily be tipped over on its side and it's got a metal bottom. It would provide decent cover. If an enemy tried to come in that door, it'd be a good way to lure them in closer, because hand to hand is the only way I'm getting out of here." He paused. "In the event of something like a fire though, I just have to hope that you guys are gonna let me outta here." But then he looked at the door. "Although if you didn't, the weak point in the door is the handle. I'd have to find a way to get that off and hopefully be able to work through the mechanics to release the deadbolt.

"We would let you out if there was an emergency," Phil assured him. "We're on your side here, you know. This is just a necessary inconvenience until you're no longer a minor." But a thought suddenly occurred to him. He stood up, Barton following him with his eyes. "I'm going to make a quick phone call. It'll just take a minute."

He headed out into the hallway to make his phone call. It was a fairly simple request to make, so he was back in Barton's cell just a few minutes later. They finished their lunches and then headed back out into the base.

Phil led Barton down to the shooting range and presented him with his own bow and quiver to fire. Phil had thought this would be exciting for Barton, but the novelty wore off surprisingly quickly. He seemed distracted again by the other people in the range, as there were more people practicing than had been last time. Just an hour later he was requesting to head back to the original training room with the parkour course.

Phil was suddenly skeptical that Barton really could manage crowded situations like he claimed that he could. But he just had to hope that would be something that they could work through as he gained Barton's trust.

Barton spent the entire afternoon on the parkour course, which thankfully remained a deserted room. Phil was amazed by the kid's energy, he never seemed to tire. Finally, he talked him down off it to pause for dinner. After dinner, Phil casually pointed out that there usually weren't many people the shooting range at this time of the evening, which prompted Barton to want to return to the room. Sure enough, when they got there, there were only two other agents practicing, and Phil and Barton were able to hole up at the opposite end of the range. Barton seemed much more at ease which this situation.

It was late into the night before Phil finally convinced Barton to call it a day.

As he was signing the kid back into the detention wing, he was handed his requested package by one of the guards. He thanked him, mindful of Barton's curious gaze as he led the teenager back to his cell for the night.

"I got this for you," Phil told him as he opened the package and handed over the contents.

There was a skeptical pause before Barton reached out and took it.

"What's this?" he asked curiously.

"It's a cell phone," Phil said. "Welcome to the twenty-first century." Barton rolled his eyes at him. "It's got my number programmed into it. You know, in case an emergency arises. You can call that, day or night, if you need to." Phil watched Barton curiously thumb around the touchscreen of the phone for a minute, satisfied that he'd be able to figure out how to use it. After all, it was likely that this was Barton's first phone, a fair assumption based on his fascination with the object. "Get some sleep. I'll be back bright and early tomorrow morning. I'd like to start you working on some sparring."

At that, Barton looked up and smirked. "I get to spar _you_?"

Phil shot him an amused smirk of his own. "Remember… I'm scrappier than I look. Goodnight, Barton."

As he walked out of the cell, he felt like he had finally made some real progress today. It was only day one of what would be Barton's four and a half month stay as a low threat detainee, and he felt like overall it had gone as well as he could have hoped for. He just had to hope that they could keep up this streak.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** What do you think? Specifically I'd love to know what you think of Jac's backstory. She keeps on popping back into my story, so I figured I'd try to get her a little more depth.

Also, minor detail that I left out of my initial A/N… so I have NOTHING written for the next chapter! Yikes! BUT, I do have an idea of what's going to happen plus I've got the majority of the following chapter written… so it's not all bad news. So, expect another (hopefully short) delay for the next chapter. Also note that this sneak peek was pulled together very quickly (literally as I'm writing this note) and is still subject to edits, but it'll at least give you an idea of what's coming next!

Don't forget to leave a review and let me know what you think!

* * *

 _ **Chapter Eight Sneak Peek**_

"Well, Barton," Fury finally said. "You've caused quite a fuss around here."

"Well, Fury," Barton parroted, and Phil couldn't help but wince to himself. "I like to keep things interesting."

Fury's gaze sparked.

"I'd prefer it if you'd refer to me as _Director_ Fury," Fury said lowly in a tone that in no way made it seem like it was a suggestion.

Any other recruit would have been trembling in their boots. Barton merely cocked a curious eyebrow.

"Why?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note :** Hello, I'm back! I appreciate your guys' patience as I'm still working through this middle section of this story. I'm very please how it's coming along though and things should really start picking up in the next chapter! No rambling this time though, we're going to get right to it!

Special shout outs to those who took the time to review the last chapter! **TheRedScreech** ; **ELOSHAZZY** and **XYZArtemis** who have become my wonderful regulars as well as newcomers **EmotionallyConstipatedOops** (possibly one of my all-time favorite screen names, lol!) and **BrieCheese16**! I very much appreciate you taking the time to let me know your thoughts!

And without further ado, we continue!

* * *

 **Chapter Eight**

"Good power, but sloppy precision," Phil critiqued. "Especially for a guy who can hit a bullseye at twenty-five yards with a handgun."

"It woulda got the job done if you'd let me actually hit someone," Barton gripped as he retreated a step, lightly bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Possibly," Phil allowed as he adjusted the punching mitts on his hands. "No one will deny that you are effective in hand-to-hand. But you can definitely be more efficient. Remember, don't waste energy on two hits when you can do it in one." He raised the mitts again. "Focus. And try again."

Barton rolled his eyes but obediently reset his stance, ready to try the combination again.

It had been a week since Barton had been downgraded to a low-threat detainee and they had fallen into a bit of a daily routine. After breakfast they'd start off the morning with sparring lessons, lasting from one hour to the entire morning, depending on Barton's interest level in the activity. After that, Barton got to dictate what he wanted to do for most of the rest of the day – sometimes it was the agility training gym, sometimes it was the firing range, sometimes it was just exploring the compound. Generally it took some convincing, but Phil had begun insisting on ending the days with studying. They would gather materials from the cell and take over one of the briefing rooms for the evening. It was usually a task to get Barton to actually focus on things like the seventh-grade history book or vocabulary flashcards. But once he did focus, even though Phil had suspected Barton would be a quick study, even he was surprised by how quickly the kid was able to retain information.

Barton continued to surprise him.

He worked the kid through several complicated sparring combinations. They had quickly sped by the basics during their first sparring session when it became clear that Barton didn't need any help in that area. He could certainly hold his own, he even had some halfway decent technique. But there was definitely room for improvement when it came to strategy.

They were working in one of the main sparring gyms on the base, which had plenty of space for practicing as well as padded equipment to train with. The issue with this was that meant that people were in and out of this room constantly, often distracting Barton while he was moving through his combinations or when Phil was trying to explain something to him. They could have found a smaller gym to train in, one that would have less traffic, but Phil didn't want to get in the habit of coddling Barton, even if he was a fair few years younger than most recruits. If the kid was going to succeed here, he had to learn when to be hyperalert and when to relax.

"Better," Phil said with a smile after a few more tries as Barton hit the dead center of the pads as he moved them.

"I didn't know SHIELD provided daycare."

In the otherwise quiet room this early in the morning, the comment – as well as the snickers that followed – carried.

Barton's head stayed pointed at Phil, but his eyes darted in the direction of the group of recruits that were passing by, narrowing in anger. It was hard to tell which one of them had actually made the comment, as they all looked equally pleased by the sentiment.

"Ignore them," Phil instructed in a low voice.

In the ten days since Barton had arrived here, rumors had been building throughout the facility. Unfortunately, it was something that couldn't be avoided, especially when a top SHIELD agent stopped taking missions and started escorting a kid around the training facilities. The situation was unheard of, and because of that, the speculation over Barton had quickly spread amongst not only the recruits, but the staff as well.

With all the talk throughout the base, it wasn't long before it was realized that the three SHIELD agents who had been hospitalized a few weeks ago – who had been based out of this facility – had been Barton's doing. This had only gotten worse when it was revealed that it was likely at least one of those agents' careers was over due to how severely his leg had been broken.

What Phil wouldn't do to be able to retract that piece of information from everyone's brains.

"You let me spar with them, bet I could shut 'em up," Barton mumbled darkly even as he reset his stance.

"You start beating up on random people, it's only going to make it worse," Phil pointed out rationally. "Now focus on me. Let's run that last one again. You've got the precision, now it's time to add the speed."

Resolutely, Phil made Barton run more drills than strictly necessary. With the distractions, Barton's movements became less precise again, with more anger behind each blow. At one point, he was so off with his aim of a spin kick, that Phil had to quickly move the mitt to keep from taking the blow himself, which in turn sent Barton stumbling off balance, though ultimately gracefully catching himself by spinning himself back away from Phil.

Despite the fact that he saved himself from actually falling, there were still chuckles that made their way from the group of recruits who were working on the other side of the gym. This time, Barton openly glared at them.

"Barton," Phil said firmly, drawing Barton's gaze back to him. "You need to _focus_ or one of us is going to get hurt here, okay?" He shot a glance at the group before he stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Those guys are just a bunch of idiots. They're annoying as shit, but they're not dangerous. They don't need your attention. So, stop giving it to them."

Barton sent an uneasy look over his shoulder at the group, clearly reluctant to completely ignore them. Phil reminded himself that this kid had been living on the streets for at least a year and a half, probably more than that. In was ingrained in him to watch his own back.

He softened his tone as he spoke again. "The way it works here is that you don't work alone. Even Solo Operatives have someone on the comms to help them out. I'm not asking you to leave yourself vulnerable to attack. I'm asking you to trust me to watch your back. You focus on your sparring moves. I'll keep an eye on that group of recruits and I'll tell you if they get any closer. Sound fair?"

Barton studied him for a moment as he seemed to contemplate the idea. Finally, he nodded once, sliding carefully back into a fighting stance.

"Good," Phil said. He glanced over Barton's shoulder at the group. "Five standing around, two working through sparring drills. Three of the standing around keep glancing over here, but are making no indication that they will cross the room." He looked back at Barton, who's features were focused on the punching mitts again. "Now, let's run through that combination again."

It was an improvement. Phil would report on the group of recruits' movements – as well as anyone else who entered or left the room – after every couple rounds. In exchange, Barton's punches and kicks were much more controlled as he focused on the mitts rather than the people around him. Phil still caught him glancing around every so often… but Rome wasn't built in a day and Phil felt like an honest improvement had been made by the time he decided to end the session.

"Good job today," Phil complimented, referring to more than just the sparring as they returned the equipment.

But Barton wasn't paying him much attention again. A glance around the room told him why. The group of recruits had shifted and were now huddled in the path that Phil and Barton would have to take to get to the door. Barton had stiffened at the sight, his gaze turning predatory. Phil could practically see his hackles rising.

"Easy, Barton," Phil said lowly. "No one's going to jump you here."

"I know," Barton said flatly in a tone that wasn't at all convincing.

"Okay then," Phil said. "Let's go."

The two fell into step beside each other, and Phil felt relieved as Barton shoved his hands into his pockets, figuring that would help him keep himself in check. Even as they approached and could hear the snickers, Phil was impressed as Barton kept his gaze resolutely trained straight ahead of him.

Phil honestly didn't see it happen. He noticed Barton drifting closer to the group as they passed, so he was watching him carefully out of the corner of his eye to make sure he didn't do anything stupid. But he had been watching the kid's upper body – lulled into a false sense of security when Barton's hands remained firmly in his pockets – when apparently, he should have been watching the kid's feet.

One second they were passing by the group… in the next the snicker leader was crashing to the ground.

"Whoa, careful there," Barton said, and Phil almost believed the innocent surprise in his voice. "Might wanna work 'standing on flat surfaces' into your training schedule."

"You little _shit_ ," the recruit spat, scrambling back to his feet.

"Hey," Phil snapped stepping between the two before the situation could escalate further.

"You can't protect him forever, Agent Coulson," the recruit spat.

"I'm not protecting _him_ ," Phil said pointedly in a low, even voice. "I just don't want to have to explain why you end up in the infirmary. But judging by your attitude toward someone who's _on the same side as you_ , trust me, I'm halfway tempted to step aside and let you two duke it out. Is that really what you want, _recruit_?"

The guy looked like the reality of the situation just hit him. He clearly had no respect for Barton, but Phil was an entirely different story, especially when he was still only a recruit and his full induction into SHIELD wasn't guaranteed. He stepped back, dropping his gaze.

"Sorry, sir," he mumbled.

Phil took an extra moment to glare the guy back a few more steps back before he turned and shepherded Barton out of the training gym.

"That was uncalled for, you know," Phil scolded as soon as the door shut securely behind them. "You could have just walked by him without causing a scene."

"Maybe," Barton said with a shrug, clearly unconcerned. "But it sure as hell made _me_ feel better."

"It certainly didn't win you any brownie points with the other recruits though," Phil pointed out.

"I'm not here to make friends, Coulson," Barton said, his tone suddenly hard. "What do you expect me to do? I'm not going to stand around and be the butt of everyone's joke for the next four months."

"This will pass," Phil tried to assure him. "Something else will happen and the rumor mill will move on to the next thing. You can lay low until you get the chance to prove yourself. Then everyone will forget these little details."

There was a long pause as they walked.

"I don't feel bad," Barton suddenly blurted.

"I wouldn't really expect you to," Phil admitted. "That kid did have it coming and there was no real harm done."

But Barton was shaking his head. "No, not that," he said. Then he paused, thoughtful. "Although I don't feel bad about that either."

Phil glanced at him, curious. "Then what did you mean?"

Barton sent him a weary look out of the corner of his eye. "I don't feel bad about that guy I crippled. The SHIELD agent that might be sidelined because of me."

Phil stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes for a moment, taking in a steadying breath. When he opened them, he saw that Barton had stopped as well and was eyeing him critically.

"How did you find out about that?" Phil finally asked calmly. It was something he had been trying very hard to keep from Barton, figuring the kid didn't need that burden.

Barton crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged one shoulder. "I'm not stupid."

Phil nodded, wishing he could get more information than that, but knowing that Barton wasn't going to tell him anything he didn't want to.

"Well, I'm relieved that you don't feel bad about it," Phil admitted. "Because you shouldn't." Barton looked honestly taken aback by this statement. "SHIELD agents know what they're getting into when they take the job. Every mission, no matter how small or mundane it might seem, has the potential to be their last. It's the risk they agree to take, and Richards knew the risks as well as any of them."

"That was his name?" Barton asked, his expression guarded. "Richards?"

Phil nodded. "Matthew Richards," he confirmed. "Been with SHIELD almost ten years now." He paused, before going on. "You know, SHIELD is an agency that's run by people, so it's not infallible. It is completely possible that we can make mistakes. And sending those agents after you like we did was a mistake. Our agents are trained to bring in hostiles and yours was a unique situation that they were not properly equipped to deal with. So, anything that happened to those agents isn't on you, it's on us."

Even though Barton claimed he didn't feel bad about it, Phil still felt the need to provide assurance of where the blame should firmly lay.

"As long as we both know that," Barton said with a stiff nod as he turned and continued down the hallway.

Before Phil could respond, his phone was ringing. He reached for it and looked at the caller ID. He had to work not to hide a groan. Barton must had noticed the reaction though, because he shot him a curious look. Phil pointedly ignored it as he answered the call.

"Coulson."

"I'm feeling a bit like I've gotten stood up for the prom, Phil."

Phil sighed heavily at the annoyance in Fury's tone.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, even though he wasn't particularly. He had been putting off Fury on purpose. "It's been a bit of a hectic week."

"Mhm," Fury hummed, unimpressed. "I want you to clear some time in your very busy schedule this afternoon. I want to talk with this kid before he starts taking out more of my recruits."

 _Well, that was fast…_ Phil thought to himself, as he glanced up at one of the security cameras mounted in the ceiling as they walked by. He was either watching the live feed or had someone doing it for him and sending along pertinent clips.

"You been watching us, sir?" Phil asked innocently.

"Nothing good on television these days," Fury said dryly.

"Tragic," Phil deadpanned.

"I've conveniently got some free time at 2:00 this afternoon," Fury said briskly. "I'll see you and our guest in my office then."

"Yes, sir," Phil said even though it wasn't meant to be a suggestion.

He hung up the phone, looking down at it and frowning.

"That sounded like a fun conversation," Barton commented, glancing at him wearily out of the corner of his eye.

"We've got a meeting with the Director this afternoon," Phil informed him as he tucked his phone back away in his pocket. He did his best to sound casual, but in truth he had been dreading the moment that Fury finally called him out on his avoidance. In truth, it had taken him longer than Phil thought it would.

Barton quirked an eyebrow at that. "Why?"

"He just wants to meet you," Phil said. "He likes to know who's wandering around his base."

"Really?" Barton said, clearly unconvinced. "Does he meet with all potential recruits?"

"No," Phil admitted. "This is a unique circumstance."

"Well, don't I feel special," Barton mumbled flatly.

* * *

Phil made damn sure they were ten minutes early to their meeting with Fury, not willing to risk Barton starting off on the wrong foot. He knew this was going to be an uphill battle as it was.

"So, we just stand here?" Barton questioned… again.

Phil sighed. "We are early."

"Then why'd you rush us up here?" Barton grumbled.

"It sends a good message to the Director if we're here early."

"How can it send a good message if he doesn't even know we're here?"

"He knows."

"Well, that's ominous," Barton stated as he shifted his gaze back to the door, crossing his arms over his chest.

Phil couldn't help but smirk at that. "Good use of a vocabulary word."

Barton rolled his eyes.

They lapsed into silence again. Phil noticed the way that Barton stood stock still, never once wavering his weight to one side or the other. Even Phil felt the need to shift around a little every few minutes. He couldn't help but wonder where Barton had picked up a habit like that. It seemed like a strange one to have picked up on the streets. If anything, Phil really would have expected the kid to be more fidgety than most.

"Come in," a voice finally called from within.

Barton turned to Phil and motioned forward. "After you."

It was supposed to be an offhanded snark, but there was a tension behind his tone that hadn't been there before. Phil suspected he was more nervous than he let on.

He reached forward and opened the door, leading the way into Fury's office.

Fury was not sitting behind his desk, but standing in front of it with a hard expression as he watched them enter. That was to be expected, Fury would never meet someone for the first time in such a passive position as sitting behind a desk.

Phil led the way into the room and right up to where Fury stood. Barton stopped behind him and Phil motioned as discreetly as he could that the kid should step up next to him. Barton obliged, but Phil was pretty sure Fury noticed the exchange. He hoped that Fury would cut Barton some slack though. After all, he was still a kid and was probably used to standing behind adults, not on the same level as them.

He would have to learn that was no longer his situation.

"Clint Barton," Phil said motioning toward the Director. "This is Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD. Director Fury… this is Clint Barton."

With his part done, Phil took a small step back. He knew that he couldn't be Barton's crutch during this exchange. He had to let this play out, for better or for worse, if he wanted Fury to have a chance to start accepting Barton.

There was a tense silence following the introduction, with Barton and Fury each sizing each other up. Phil was suddenly thankful that Fury wasn't generally one to shake hands and properly greet new recruits. He saw it as a gesture of respect, one that he felt had to be earned. It worked in their favor in this situation, so Phil didn't have to watch Barton refuse to shake the Director of SHIELD's hand. That alone might have ended the meeting before it even started.

"Well, Barton," Fury finally said. "You've caused quite a fuss around here."

"Well, Fury," Barton parroted, and Phil couldn't help but wince to himself. "I like to keep things interesting."

Fury's gaze sparked.

"I'd prefer it if you'd refer to me as _Director_ Fury," Fury said lowly in a tone that in no way made it seem like it was a suggestion.

Any other recruit would have been trembling in their boots. Barton merely cocked a curious eyebrow.

"Why?"

"Because I didn't just luck into this big fancy office," Fury said, waving a hand to indicate the area around him. "My blood and sweat went into earning my title. And I appreciate people – especially people that I've just met –acknowledging that."

"My bad, mister Director, sir," Barton said with exaggerated formality.

 _Goddamnit, kid,_ Phil groaned to himself. At least he didn't salute…

Fury, to his credit, didn't lose his cool easily. He merely regarded the mouthy kid in front of him with an air of putting together a puzzle.

"Do you know why you're here?" Fury asked after a minute of uncomfortable silence.

"You called Coulson this morning and demanded a meeting," Barton answered. "And, apparently, your word is gospel around here."

Fury narrowed his gaze… probably trying to decide if Barton was really that thick or if he was purposefully trying to make things difficult. Phil knew from experience that it was the latter.

"Not here in this office," Fury said slowly. "Here on this base, with a roof over your head and three-square meals a day along with pretty much the run of the place. It's a pretty cushy gig. Do you know why?"

Barton's sobered at that.

"I'm not here looking for handouts," he said stiffly. "I can get by just fine on my own."

"That's not what I was suggesting," Fury clarified easily. "I want you to understand that you are here because of Phil Coulson. You are here because _he_ believes in you. I for one am still skeptical about your presence here. Especially if you're going to antagonize my recruits."

Barton was taken aback for a moment, probably not having expected Fury to already know about that. He visible had to gather himself before he finally responded.

"Gotta say, I'm confused. Because if you know about me harmlessly tripping that guy in the training gym but don't know why, then I have to assume that you don't do your homework. Which is concerning, considering you're apparently the almighty being within this base and it seems if anyone should be doing their homework, it's you. _Sir_." The final word was said as an afterthought, with none of the respect the term usually held.

"Excuse me?" And Phil could almost hear the surprise in Fury's voice at the accusation. Almost. Fury didn't give anything away that he didn't intend to.

"Well, it seems to me like you're sitting in that cushy chair behind that very fancy desk of yours, demanding all kinds of respect for yourself and your people here, without bothering to offer that very thing to me in return," he pointed out mildly. "Because that guy was clearly disrespecting me before I disrespected him. Seems like a bit of a double standard to me. So, at what point in the recruiting and training process do you get rewarded with this fancy, one-way respect?"

"Respect has to be earned," Fury pointed out.

"I agree," Barton said quickly, cutting off anything else Fury had been about to say. "And I don't think anyone is above earning it, no matter their fancy titles."

There was a tense silence. Phil honestly wasn't sure how Fury was going to react to being called out like that. This definitely wasn't the way that he had thought this was going to go… it was so much worse.

"I will ignore this indiscretion this one time," Fury finally said. "But I will ask that there is no more physical violence against any others within this facility during your stay here. Despite flaws, each person here has earned their place for the time being. Whether or not a recruit will go on to earn a job here remains a fluid thing. However, it is not up to you to decide who does or doesn't need to be taken down a peg. This is my home that I have allowed you to stay in, and even if not everyone shows their respect, I would at least hope that you could show a little gratitude for the unique opportunity you've been presented."

"I'll see what I can do," Barton deadpanned.

"You do that," Fury said lowly.

There was a pause.

"That it then?" Barton asked. "We done here?"

Fury cocked a skeptical eyebrow at him. "Am I keeping you from something, Barton?" Barton simply shrugged a shoulder noncommittedly. "Why don't you take a seat. I've got a few more questions for you. That is, if you can find the time in your very busy schedule."

"I'd rather stand," Barton said stiffly… because the kid had never once sat down when he had been asked to.

Phil had originally thought that it was just because Barton didn't like being told what to do. But now he wasn't so sure. There were other things that he would do if he were asked. It seemed like it was only being specifically asked to sit that Barton rebelled against. Well, that and shaking hands.

"Suit yourself," Fury said, thankfully unconcerned. He leaned back against the desk behind him and crossed his arms over his chest, fixing Barton with a hard stare. "Why did you kill Malcolm Bates?"

Barton arched an eyebrow at that. He shot a look at Phil that he couldn't quite read before focusing back on Fury.

"Same reason you were gonna," he said. "Because he was a bad guy."

Fury nodded but he was frowning. "And how did you know that?"

Barton blinked as if he didn't quite understand the question.

"What?" he asked after a moment.

"How did you know that he was a bad guy who deserved to die?" Fury said calmly.

"Same way you did, probably," Barton said. "Saw what was happening in that neighborhood. Decided to take care of the problem."

"So, you also had a team of analysts to link countless violent crimes to the man as well as a national drug cartel, and then took that information before a committee in order to decide that this man's life should end," Fury deadpanned.

Barton shoved his hands into his pockets, undeterred. "Nope. But I did take a stroll through the neighborhood he was single handedly destroying with his drug sales. You ever see a twelve-year-old going through heroin withdrawal, _sir_? I didn't need any analysts or committees to tell me the guy who knowingly caused that deserved to be ended."

Phil had to admit… it was a damn good answer, given the circumstances. Judging by the way that Fury paused, Phil knew that Fury was at least a little impressed himself.

"How many times have you done this?" Fury asked clinically. "Taken the law into your own hands?"

Barton glanced at Phil again, a spark of accusatory anger in his gaze.

"I'm sorry, am I on trial here?" Barton demanded, a note of suspicion in his tone.

"Not at the moment," Fury said calmly. "But I can't help but wonder what a seventeen-year-old kid who seems so comfortable with taking another man's life has been doing with his own life thus far."

"Been doin' the best I can," Barton said with an unconcerned shrug. "Anyway, I thought by now your super spies would have dug up everything you'd ever want to know about me."

"It seems when you went off the grid, you did a very effective job of disappearing," Fury admitted, somewhat reluctantly. "And it makes me uncomfortable to have a six-year blackhole in a person's history."

"Sounds like a personal problem to me," Barton commented.

"Perhaps," Fury allowed. "But it's a personal problem that I'm allowed to have with people staying on my base."

"So, kick me out then," Barton challenged.

Phil almost forgot to breath.

"Careful, you're going to give Coulson a stroke," Fury observed. "He's put a lot of effort into making sure you have this opportunity. You'd really throw that away to keep your past a secret?"

Barton hesitated, just a fraction longer than he really should have.

"I haven't decided yet," he finally admitted.

"In my experience, when someone doesn't want to talk about where they've been or what they've been up to, it means they've got something to hide," Fury said, locking Barton was a critical eye. "And that something is rarely a good thing." He paused and when Barton showed no sign that he was going to respond, he went on. "Can you think of any other reason to withhold that kind of information, Barton?"

Barton paused and tilted his head slightly, seeming to weigh his thoughts carefully before he spoke.

"Maybe they want to protect someone who actually tried to do right by them," he finally said, meeting Fury's gaze steadily, an air of confident defiance to him.

He didn't outwardly show it, but Phil knew the answer threw Fury off. He knew this because Phil himself – who had spent pretty much every waking moment with the kid for the past week – hadn't expected an explanation like that. In fact, he hadn't expected an explanation at all, merely more deflecting.

Fury was quiet for a moment, contemplating the kid who stood before him.

"And you feel like this person who did right by you needs to be protected from _us_?" he finally asked, his tone much more measured.

Barton shrugged both shoulders. "It's possible. I don't know for sure yet and I'm not yet ready to take that risk." He said it as a casual statement and could have been commenting on the weather rather than accusing the organization of being untrustworthy.

"At some point, you'll have to pick a side, Barton," Fury said. "You'll have to decide whether or not you'll trust us."

"I know that," Barton said. "But I've been told that I have until I turn eighteen to make that decision." He shot another look at Phil.

"That's correct," Phil spoke up.

"So, he does speak in front of the big scary Director," Barton mumbled sarcastically. Then he focused back on Fury. "My trust is not earned in a week. I'm not ashamed of that. I like to know what I'm getting into before I take the leap. Especially when I'm spending my nights locked in a cell and every waking moment being tailed by a guy on the payroll."

Fury studied him for a moment. Finally, he nodded.

"I can respect that," he allowed. "I supposed it's a good thing that we have the time for this trial run."

Barton nodded. "I guess so." He paused. "Anything else I can help you with? _Sir_?"

The condescending way that he said the word _sir_ was going to get old fast. But thankfully it seemed that the Director had decided to pick his battles today.

"That's it for today," Fury said evenly. "Just know that I'll be keeping a close eye on you."

"As long as you stay out of the bathrooms, be my guest," Barton said dryly.

Fury rolled his one good eye at that. "Dismissed for now, Barton. We will have another conversation in the near future though."

"I look forward to it, mister Director Fury, _sir_ ," Barton said flatly, already turning on his heels and giving the Director a lazy wave over his shoulder. "See you around."

Phil sent Fury an apologetic look before he turned and hurried after Barton, catching up with him outside of Fury's office.

"So… how'd I do?" Barton asked mildly, glancing at him as he arched his eyebrows in question.

"Honestly?" Phil said, letting out a deep breath. "You could have done worse."

Barton nodded with a smirk. "I'll keep that in mind for next time." Phil rolled his eyes at that. "You were a ton of help in there, by the way," he went of sarcastically.

"It was your meeting, not mine," Phil pointed out calmly. "It was your chance to show the Director who you really are."

"And how do you think that went?" Barton asked with a snort.

Phil weighed his thoughts for a moment before he spoke.

"I think you gave him a glimpse of what's behind that smartass mouth of yours," he said. "It's a start, anyway." He paused. "You know, if there really is someone who did right by you, we wouldn't go after them. Good people aren't in any danger from us."

"Can you say that for absolutely sure," Barton challenged, all the humor having drained from his tone. It wasn't phrased as a question and the doubt in his features were clear. "Because I've found that being a good person is often a matter of opinion." He stopped and turned to Phil, meeting his eyes. "If someone did right by me by breaking the law, would you still consider them a good person?"

Phil considered this carefully for a moment. After all, it was a valid concern.

"I think there are often shades of grey when it comes to whether something is right or wrong, or whether a person is good or bad," he finally said. "It's why Fury was concerned with how exactly you knew that Bates deserved to die. It's also why we as an organization don't normally allow one person to serve as judge, jury and executioner. Everything has to be considered before we made the call to eliminate a target." He paused. "All that aside, though, I'd like to think that we as people understand that there is such a thing as a seemingly illegal decision made for the right reasons. And I also like to think that we can be open minded about someone who helps a couple of kids out of a bad situation, even if it wasn't in a strictly legal way."

Phil had his suspicions about Barton's experience in the foster care system. He knew that only one home that he had spent time in was put under investigation for child abuse, but to make two kids believe that they were better off running away rather than staying in a system that was supposedly designed to protect them, he had to believe something more had been going on.

And judging by the surprise edged with something sharp that Phil couldn't quite identify that flashed across Barton's face for just a moment, Phil suspected that line of thinking was on the right track.

"But, I'll never force you to tell me anything you don't want to," Phil went on. "If you don't want to tell us where you've been, you don't have to. Just keep in mind, that we cannot recruit anyone into this organization without a complete history."

"I'll keep that in mind," Barton said noncommittedly as he turned and continued down the hallway.

As Phil followed him, he couldn't help but turn over the new information Barton had inadvertently given in his head. He had always assumed that when Barton and his brother disappeared from the group home in Iowa they had simply lived on the streets. But now, Phil wasn't so sure. Barton was concerned about protecting someone who did right by him… what if it was someone who took them in? But then, where was that person now?

Despite these new questions though, it was encouraging to see Barton not quite so tight lipped. Despite everything, he was beginning to open up, if only by small degrees.

* * *

It was late in the evening, after Phil had dropped Barton off at his cell for the night. He headed back toward Fury's office, knowing full well that the Director tended to work late into the night anyway and hoping to catch him before he had time to solidify his opinion of Barton.

He wanted to make sure that Fury was seeing the whole picture, beyond the smart-mouthed kid that had showed up in his office today.

His knock on Fury's door was immediately followed by an invitation into the office.

"Been expecting you," Fury said with only a cursory glance up at him as he walked in, closing the door behind him.

"I was hoping to speak with you about what happened earlier," Phil said as he briskly crossed the room.

"I want you to look at this," Fury said as if Phil hadn't spoken, sitting back and waving at his computer screen. Phil obediently circled the desk so that he could get a look at what Fury was indicating. "You didn't even see him do this, did you?"

On the screen was the security footage from earlier that day. Phil and Barton were walking toward the exit of the training gym, past the group of recruits. He watched carefully, interested in what exactly Barton had done. If he would have blinked, he would have missed it… again. Just as they were passing Barton's victim, his foot shot back and around the ankle of the recruit, hooking it and swiftly yanking it out from under him, causing the guy to go crashing to the ground.

The move was so quick that it barely even faltered Barton's even steps.

"Not in the moment, no," Phil confirmed. "He was… too fast." He looked up at Fury and met his gaze, willing him to see his unsaid meaning. "I was watching him because I suspected he might lash out. But even knowing that, I still missed it."

Fury nodded, unsurprised.

As he minimized the video, Phil saw that it was in a folder on his desktop with a couple dozen other video clips. Judging by the previews in the small icons, they were a collection of security feeds of Barton's… tricks. Scaling walls, moving through the parkour course, firing his bow at the shooting range, sparring with Phil. Fury had certainly been keeping a close eye on them.

Fury leaned back in his chair and looked at Phil evenly.

"His attitude is shit, to say the least," Fury informed him. "His issues with authority is concerning." He paused before he sighed in resignation. "But, if he can work passed that… he would make a hell of an operative."

Phil couldn't help but smile. "You saying I was right, sir?"

"Not yet," Fury said. "He still has to learn to take orders. It's part of the deal. And I still want to know what in his past he's hiding. But…" He paused, bobbing his head to one side slightly in a motion of allowance, "I'm admitting that he definitely has potential."

"I'll count that as progress," Phil said, suddenly feeling a sense of accomplishment. The kid had only been on base a week and Fury was already starting to come around. That was more than Phil had dared hope for when they had first started down this path.

"Was there something you wanted?" Fury asked, leaning back in his chair to look up at him.

"I think you covered it," Phil said with a satisfied smirk.

"You don't have to look quite so damn proud of yourself, Phil," Fury said dryly.

"Can't help it, sir," Phil said as the smirk morphed into a full out grin. "I'm pretty damn proud of myself."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** And there we have it, Fury's finally starting to come around! This was a fun one to write, I love the snark and sass between Barton and Fury. They're too much alike in a lot of ways, which is why they'll butt heads, haha. I have a good chunk of the next chapter written already, so I'm hopeful that I'll get it posted within my normal one-week timeframe. Fingers crossed! In the meantime, if you would be so kind as to leave a review with your thoughts, I would very much appreciate it!

* * *

 _ **Chapter Nine Sneak Peak**_

"Coulson," he mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep. There was a long pause. "Hello?" More silence. Phil frowned in confusion as he rubbed his free hand over his eyes. The phone had been ringing, hadn't it? Or had he dreamed it? He pulled the phone from his face and squinted into the light, blinking until the caller ID came into focus.

The name CLINT BARTON stared steadily back at him from the screen.

Suddenly, Phil was sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, wide awake as he pressed the phone back to his ear. "Barton?"

" _Coulson_." The kid's voice sounded thin and unsteady, maybe even a little breathless.

Something was wrong.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:** Hello there! Apologies that this chapter is a little late. This next part kind of ran away from me a bit, haha. So, what happened was when I finished the first draft of the original Chapter Nine, it was already north of 9,000 words even before my final edits which tends to add another couple hundred words. It was feeling far too long so I decided to cut it in half. The downside of that is that this chapter is a little shorter than my chapters normally are. The upside is that the next chapter is basically written and should be posted in a couple days!

Shout outs to those who took the time to review Chapter Eight! **Jokerdino10** ; **The Red Screech** ; **ELOSHAZZY** ; **EmotionallyConstipatedOops** ; **Melissa Butler** ; **XYZArtemis** ;and **Guest** , you guys are my favorites! Reviews seriously make my day and are the reason I work so hard on this!

And now… we continue!

* * *

 **Chapter Nine**

He watched as Barton executed ten textbook perfect pull ups on the bar, the effort barely detectable in his features. This was after one hundred sit-ups and fifty push-ups. And all that after a hard one-hour round with one of the punching bags in the gym.

Phil kept on waiting for Barton to slow down. But it seemed like it just wasn't in the kid's DNA to be still.

Barton hung down under the pull-up bar and pinned his legs together, swinging them forward, then backward, then forward again, building up momentum. Phil watched, curious what he was doing. Then he swung forward with even more force and swung his entire body up until, all of a sudden, he was above the bar with his feet pointed straight up in the air, basically doing a handstand. He held it steadily for a minute before he released and let his body swing back down. As he was coming under the bar he released his grip, and his body flew through the air as he pulled his legs in to his chest and rolled once… twice in midair before he landed gracefully, bending his knees to absorb the landing before standing up straight.

Just another day with Clint Barton killing time in one of the training gyms. Barton had been with them over a month now, and Phil had determinedly ceased being surprised by what the kid could do. That didn't mean that he was any less impressed though.

Phil studied Barton for a moment, racking his brain because the move he had just executed had sparked something. It had looked strangely familiar for a very specific reason, and it took him a long moment to really place where he had seen something like that before. It reminded him of a gymnast's dismount off the uneven bars after an Olympic routine, he realized.

There was still a nagging at the back of his mind though. There was something else that it reminded him of as well… he just couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

"Impressive," Phil commented as casually as he could as Barton walked over to him. "You must have had a good teacher." Barton looked at him a quirked a curious eyebrow before Phil elaborated. "No one teaches themselves how to do that," he waved a hand vaguely at the pull-up bar, "on a whim. Especially not with that textbook landing that saves your knees even without a mat to land on."

"Maybe not on a whim, but with enough trial and error you'd be surprised what you could figure out," Barton said offhandedly.

Phil didn't believe that for a moment, but he didn't pursue the idea. It was getting late and they needed to get on with their evening.

"Okay, now you promised after your workout you'd get some studying in," Phil reminded him.

Barton rolled his eyes in a way that for just a split second made him look like a normal teenager. Despite the resistance that Phil could already sense was coming, he couldn't help but be inwardly pleased to get a glimpse at Barton just getting to be a normal kid, if only for a moment.

"It's been _weeks_ ," Barton practically whined. "Can't we take just _one night_ off from that crap?"

"And miss all this fun?" Phil said dryly. "Come on, the quicker we get you to pass your GED, the sooner we can end the nightly study sessions."

"I still don't get why I need a GED," Barton grumbled, but he started heading in the direction of the briefing room where they kept his study supplies. Small victories. "It's not like I need to read good in order to take out bad guys."

"Read well," Phil corrected automatically, even though he knew by now that Barton had said it that way on purpose. "And it's not all about taking out targets. Sometimes you'll have to track down extremely intelligent targets, and being able to read at least at a basic high school level might come in handy. Not to mention, it's also about being a well-rounded human being."

"Yeah, sure," Barton muttered, clearly unconvinced.

They started off every study session with math and physics, for which Phil had needed to procure college level textbooks in order to challenge Barton. These were the subjects that came most naturally to him, therefore they were the easiest to get him to focus on and tended to be an effective way to shift Barton's focus from physical activities to academia. They would generally segue into other science subjects before starting the battle for social studies, language arts and history. These were the subjects that Barton resisted the most, having little interest in them.

That night Barton was putting up more of a resistance than usual to the last couple subjects. Phil knew that this wasn't Barton's favorite activity, but usually he grudgingly obliged. Tonight, he was constantly changing the subject, absently flipping through pages of the textbook without reading them, outwardly doodling on scraps of paper while Phil was trying to talk to him. He really wasn't sure what had Barton particularly obstinate that night, but he was still determined to hit each subject, outwardly calm as he redirected Barton back to the task at hand time and time again even though inwardly he was struggling to hold his temper. Which was how they ended up sitting in that briefing room much later than usual.

"Well, on that note I think we should call it a night," Phil announced, suppressing a yawn as they finally finished the chapter of the history book they had been working through.

But, strangely, Barton didn't bolt out of the seat like he normally did. He blinked at Phil, seeming to contemplate something carefully as he shifted in his chair.

"I can probably get in another chapter…" Barton said as he thumbed to the next page of the the history book.

Phil could only stare blankly at the sudden complete shift in Barton's attitude.

"You're kidding me, right?" he pointed out incredulously, cocking a curious eyebrow. "I had to drag you in here practically kicking and screaming to get you to study. I've had to drag you through almost every subject tonight, even the ones that you like. Now, out of the clear blue sky, you want to stay and study _more_?"

Barton's eyes were carefully trained on the textbook as he shrugged one shoulder. "This next chapter looks interesting. I mean… what is the Ren… Rena… Renasss…"

"Renaissance," Phil supplied patiently. "It was a period in European history regarded as the cultural bridge between the Middle Ages and modern history." He reached over and firmly closed the book in front of Barton, causing him to quickly pull his hand out of the way so it wouldn't get snapped between the pages. "And it'll be just as interesting to read about tomorrow. I'll also look forward to not having to drag you down here tomorrow since you're so excited to learn all about it." There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He didn't actually believe that Barton had any real interest in history – in fact it was the subject he usually put up the most resistance to – but honestly, he was too tired to put too much thought into why he was putting up the front.

Had he thought more about it, he might have realized that Barton had been putting up more and more resistance in the past couple weeks to being confined in his cell for the night.

"Fine," Barton muttered, pushing back from the table with a little more force than strictly necessary.

Barton moped all the way back to his cell, dragging his feet the whole trip, but Phil honestly couldn't think of anything other than getting back to his own room and getting some shuteye. He was tempted to leave Barton at the main hallway and let him let himself back into his cell, but more out of habit than anything he accompanied the kid all the way to his cell. He quickly bid the kid goodnight – overlooking the fact that Barton didn't even grunt in response – suppressing another yawn as he closed the cell door and headed back out of the detention wing.

* * *

An annoyingly cheerful electronic tone invaded Phil's subconscious as he was painfully slowly pulled from his deep sleep. He cracked a bleary eye even as he instinctively reached for his phone ringing on his bedside table. Without bothering to check the caller ID, he answered the call, pressing the phone to his ear.

"Coulson," he mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep. There was a long pause. "Hello?" More silence. Phil frowned in confusion as he rubbed his free hand over his eyes. The phone had been ringing, hadn't it? Or had he dreamed it? He pulled the phone from his face and squinted into the light, blinking until the caller ID came into focus.

The name CLINT BARTON stared steadily back at him from the screen.

Suddenly, Phil was sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, wide awake as he pressed the phone back to his ear. "Barton?"

" _Coulson_." The kid's voice sounded thin and unsteady, maybe even a little breathless.

Something was wrong.

"Talk to me, Barton," Phil said calmly, despite the fact that his heart was suddenly pounding with adrenaline. "What's going on?"

Heh had given that phone to Barton over a month ago now and he had never once used it. In fact, Phil was pretty sure it hadn't moved from it's spot on Barton's desk since the day he had given it to him. A week had gone by before Phil had suggested he at least leave it plugged in, so that it would be charged if he ever needed it.

Phil knew that he wouldn't call on a whim, because he would see it as showing weakness. Barton often went out of his way to proof that he didn't need help from anyone, even going so far as to refuse a hand up off the mat after doing push-ups until he collapsed just to see how many he could do. Even then, he had stubbornly stumbled to his feet on his own.

Something had to have gone very wrong for him to be reaching out to Phil now like this.

He heard the kid swallow thickly, taking in an unsteady breath. " _I need…_ " He had never heard Barton sound like this. His voice barely carried across the line, he sounded small and unsure. " _Coulson, I need out._ "

"Okay, hang tight," Phil said immediately, keeping his voice calm and steady as he stood up and headed for his dresser to grab some clothes. "I'll be there in five minutes. Do you need me to stay on the line?"

" _Just… get here._ "

"I'm on my way," Phil promised.

He glanced at his phone after he hung up. It was just after three in the morning. As he was hurrying through the empty halls of the base his mind was whirling. Barton didn't ask for help, he didn't admit to weakness. What possibly could have prompted this so suddenly?

Soon enough he burst into the control room of the detention wing. Two guards looked up at him in surprise.

"Phil?" one named Jim Adams said in confusion. "What the hell are you doing here this time of night?"

"Is Barton okay?" Phil said, moving over to check the video feed from the cells.

"Uh yeah," Adams said, confused. "I mean, he woke up maybe an hour or so ago, but he seems fine."

He pointed at the screen and Phil followed the gesture. The lights were out, so the camera was set to night vision, only giving a grainy look at what was going on in the cell. He focused in on Barton's figure, pacing restlessly around the small space. Phil felt his blood pressure lower just slightly, relieved that the kid didn't seem to be seriously injured or anything.

"I need in to see him," Phil stated.

"We're not supposed to do that after hours unless it's an emergency," Adams pointed out.

"This is an emergency," Phil said firmly, meeting the guy's gaze. "Let me in."

His tone left no room for argument. A minute later the nighttime security had been shut off and Phil was hurrying down the main hallway. As he reached Barton's cell, he was bouncing on the balls of his feet, impatient for the door to open.

As the buzz sounded he immediately wrenched the door open, having no idea what to expect.

The lights in the room blazed to life as the door opened. He immediately spotted Barton pacing at the back of the cell. Barton's eyes flew to him and they were wide but still guarded. His breaths were coming in odd gasps, as if he were trying very hard not to hyperventilate. Phil took a moment to assess that Barton appeared to still be in one piece before he spoke.

"Barton?" he said. "What's going on?"

"Out, I need out," Barton blurted, crossing the cell in several long strides.

"Wait, tell me what's happening," Phil tried.

Even as Barton stopped moving in front of him he continued to fidget, something Phil had never seen from him before. That's when Phil noticed his hands were shaking.

"Coulson, you know how you want me to trust you," Barton stated, his words coming out so quickly they were practically tripping over each other. He didn't wait for a response. "This is _me_ asking _you_ to trust me." He met Phil's eye, his gaze seeming strangely distant. "I need out. Right now."

Phil took another moment to take in Barton's unusual state.

"Okay," he agreed, stepping out of the way. "Let's go."

It took some doing at the control room to sign Barton out – signing out a detainee, even a low-risk one, wasn't usually done at this time of night – but then the two of them were heading out of the detention wing.

"Follow me," Phil said simply, taking care to not get too far ahead of the kid, a little concerned that Barton might collapse.

Quietly, they made their way through the base. They came to a stairwell and Phil led the way up all eight levels… and then he led him up the final staircase, scanning his ID card to open the final door. He was grateful it was a warm night as he led Barton onto the roof of the base.

He stopped as Barton stumbled passed him. The kid took in a deep gasping breath that almost bordered on a whine.

"Jesus, Barton," Phil said, carefully approaching the kid like he would a wild animal that was likely to run at the first sign of a wrong move. "Are you okay?"

But Barton didn't answer, desperately sucking in air. He was definitely having some kind of panic attack, Phil decided, but he had no idea why.

"Okay, easy kid," he said, switching tactics as he moved in front of Barton into his line of sight. "You're breathing into your chest, which is making it worse. Focus on breathing into your stomach." He slowly and deliberately demonstrated the deep breathing technique.

Barton's wild gaze settled on Phil. He swallowed and then seemed to concentrate on his breathing, taking a deliberately deep breath in the same fashion that Phil had. Then he took another. And another.

"Good," Phil praised. "You want to sit down?" He regretted the question as soon as it left his lips, knowing immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. Barton shook his head firmly. "Okay, that's fine," he assured him quickly when he saw a renewed spark of panic flash in the kid's eyes. "Just take it easy, okay? Everything's fine, just breath."

There was another pause as Phil listened to Barton's breathing slowly come back under control. It was several long, agonizing minutes where Phil could only look on helplessly as Barton battled whatever demons had gotten the best of him that night. Finally, his breathing came in and out evenly, as he ran a shaky hand over his face, desperately trying to regain some sort of composure.

"I thought I wasn't allowed outside," Barton mumbled, turning away slightly as he strained to sound casual, a little too occupied by looking around the mostly empty roof.

"Remember that trust theme we've got going on here?" Phil said easily. "Turns out it goes both ways."

Barton nodded, his gaze distant. "Thank you," he said quietly with a surprising amount of sincerity.

"You're welcome," Phil returned. He paused before he went on gently. "Do you think you can tell me what happened tonight? That way I can see what I can do about making sure it doesn't happen again."

"Am I gonna get shot if I go over to the edge?" Barton asked abruptly.

"No, you won't," Phil assured him. "We're not that strict about movement within the facility. As long as you don't climb down the building, cross the yard and try and jump the fence, you're fine."

Barton immediately moved over to the edge of the roof, with Phil trailing behind him, trying the balance the space between what Barton was comfortable with and what he was comfortable with. The kid was moving carefully, still seeming unsteady from the ordeal. He reached the small ledge that ran around the perimeter of the roof and after a short pause, he climbed onto it, sitting on top with his feet hanging out into the empty space beyond. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and just breathed for several minutes.

Phil hovered nearby, unsure what to do. He wanted to give the kid his space, but at the same time he had no idea what had set off the attack and wasn't sure if it would happen again.

It was a good ten minutes later before Barton, eyes still closed, finally spoke.

"It's been a long time since I've been inside for this long," he said, so quietly that Phil had to take a step closer to hear him properly. "It's like… it's like the walls are pressing in. Like the air is getting thinner."

"I think you had a panic attack," Phil said carefully.

Barton nodded, opening his eyes and looking down at his hands in his lap. "Attacked by panic. Sounds about right."

"Why tonight?" Phil asked gently, taking another cautious step closer. "You've been here over a month and this hasn't been an issue… what changed? What made tonight the breaking point?"

Barton paused as he considered that, his gaze still cast downward.

"I think… I think it's just been building for a while," he finally said softly. "Especially when I'm in that cell. It's so small it's like it's suffocating me."

Phil didn't know what to say to that. He was hovering awkwardly nearby, unsure what he should do. This was a completely different side of Barton, one that he had gotten small glimpses of, but hadn't expected he'd ever fully see. As he looked at him, it was suddenly obvious that he was only a _kid_. He looked painfully young and lost as he stared down at his hands. Suddenly he wasn't Barton anymore… he was Clint. And Phil could see clear as day the difference between the two.

And just like that, there was a moment of doubt. A moment when Phil had to ask himself if he could really in good conscious recruit this _kid_.

"I'm sorry," Phil finally said. "I didn't know." He paused, grasping at something, anything to say. He settled for a slight change of subject. "I guess you've been living mostly outside for the past year and a half?"

"Closer to seven years," Barton mumbled.

Phil was taken aback by that. "So… ever since you left the group home in Iowa?"

Barton merely nodded, still not looking at him. He had a strangely vacant look in his eyes, like he was barely aware of what was going on. It was a rare moment to see Barton without his defenses.

But that didn't make sense. Barton had strongly insinuated that someone had taken him in after he and his brother had run away from CPS all those years ago, someone he had been inclined to protect from SHIELD. Now he was saying that he had basically been living outside, something Phil would have associated with homelessness. Phil really wasn't sure how to reconcile those two thoughts.

"I used to open the windows on the train," Barton murmured. He suddenly looked up, gazing at the sky overhead. "I used to like to watch the stars go by." He seemed about to say something else, but snapped his mouth shut, his eyes darting toward Phil as if he just remembered he was there.

"I'm not gonna ask," Phil assured him gently. "Even though I'm dying to." He gave him a comforting smile.

Barton was quiet, staring out into the woods beyond the perimeter fence. Phil could practically see his walls being rebuilt as he pulled himself back together from where the panic attack had cracked his armor. Phil was pretty convinced he wasn't going to answer… when he finally spoke.

"We didn't know where we were going when we left," he said, his voice void of all emotion. "There wasn't a plan beyond just getting out. We just kind of… stumbled on the idea." He paused. "It just so happened… the carnival was in town."

"The carnival?" Phil echoed, taken completely off guard. It wasn't even close to what he had been expecting.

Barton nodded, glancing over at him a little unsurely. "They… took us in. Gave us a place to stay, food to eat… it was better than any of the group homes we were ever put in by CPS. And even so… CPS would have taken us away from there in a heartbeat if they ever found us there with no legal guardians."

Phil paused, weighing his thoughts carefully. "Child Protective Services has the best of intentions, but they are often tied by a flawed system. And I won't fault you for looking for something better when the system was failing you, nor will I fault that carnival for taking you in when you had nowhere else to go." Barton nodded, looking a little relieved. "Which carnival was it?"

"Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders," Barton said, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips.

Phil couldn't help but smile as the name sparked a memory from his youth. "I went to one of their shows when I was younger," he said. "I remember they put on a fantastic show, the acrobatics were amazing." Suddenly, it hit him like a ton of bricks why Barton's stunt on the pull-up bar earlier that day had seemed so familiar. "That's where you learned your acrobatic tricks, didn't you?"

Barton snorted a laugh. "I might have picked up a thing or two."

"So, can I ask," Phil said slowly, "why you left?"

Barton's gaze wandered back out to look at the forest in the distance, frowning. "It was just time to move on."

Phil sensed that he wasn't going to get any more explanation from the kid. In any case, he didn't want to push his luck with how forthcoming Barton was finally being.

Phil perched on the edge of the ledge a couple feet from Barton, facing the other direction as he settled in for what he knew was going to be long night. They stayed there until the sun began peaking up over the horizon. Phil did finally put his foot down after about an hour when Barton seemed to be nodding off while sitting up on the ledge, and made him get down and sit on the ground instead so that he wouldn't fall, but he never went so far as to make him go back inside. This was a relatively small thing that he could grant Barton tonight.

"We can go back in now," Barton said reluctantly just as the sky was beginning to lighten. "I'm sorry for keeping you up tonight."

Phil nodded, unable to deny that he was getting sleepy himself. "I can't promise to get you outside every day," he told him truthfully, "but now that I know, I should be able to work it out so that we can get at least some fresh air each week."

Barton shot him a skeptical look. "Really? I thought you were concerned about revealing the location of your super-secret base."

"I was," Phil assured him. "But it's be over a month of you playing by our rules." He tilted his head slightly. "Mostly, anyway. And I believe you've earned this."

Barton nodded as he pushed himself to his feet. "Thanks."

"I just want you to be honest with me, Barton," Phil said as he led the way back to the door that led back into the building. "If I knew this was a problem for you, I could have gotten you out sooner. I really do want to help you out, kid, but you have to let me, at least a little bit."

Barton nodded, though he was looking down at his feet as he walked through the door that Phil help open for him.

Barton voluntarily led the way back down to the detention wing and didn't so much as comment as Phil signed him back in to a couple of confused morning shift guards. Despite everything, there still seemed to be a heaviness to the kid in the way he hunched his shoulders and dragged his feet as they made their way back to his cell.

Unable to leave the kid just yet, Phil stepped into the cell and let the door close behind him. He just wanted to make sure he was okay. But instead of making his way over to the bed like Phil thought he would, he sat heavily in the desk chair, despite the exhaustion that was becoming more obvious by the minute.

It was then that something caught Phil's eye that he had overlooked when he had first gotten to the cell earlier that night, distracted by Barton's condition. The bed was made. He had noticed in the mornings when he would pick Barton up the bed was always made, but he always assumed it was something that Barton did when he woke up in the mornings. But Barton certainly wouldn't have taken the time to make his bed mid-panic attack at three in the morning.

"Do you sleep in that bed?" Phil asked bluntly.

Barton glanced uneasily at him and then studied the bed, as if perplexed by it.

"No."

Well, at least he was being honest.

"Why not?" Phil asked, more curious than anything.

"I just… I haven't had a bed in a long time," Barton said with a shrug, seeming to try a little too hard to sound casual. "It's just more comfortable to stretch out on the floor."

"Okay," Phil said, though he didn't particularly like the idea. One hurdle at a time… "I'm going to go catch a few hours of sleep. Will you be okay here?"

Barton swallowed. "Yeah." But his voice sounded suspiciously thin.

Phil weighed his thoughts for a moment before he spoke again.

"You know, I'm really beat and my bunk is a bit of a hike. Would you care if I just crashed in this bed if you're not going to?"

He didn't want to outright offer to stay here for the sake of Barton's wellbeing, he knew that sentiment would be rejected immediately. But he hoped his presence might help the kid relax enough to get some shuteye himself.

Barton considered this for a long more. "Yeah, sure," he finally said, not looking at him. "That's fine."

"Thanks," Phil said.

He headed over for the bed and kicked off his shoes. Then he stretched out without bother to even get under the blankets.

He hadn't been lying. Now that the adrenaline of the evening was completely gone, he was exhausted. He had to work to not fall asleep immediately, waiting until he finally heard Barton move to the floor, stretching out and pillowing his head on a folded arm underneath him. It didn't look particularly comfortable but if it was something that brought the kid some sense of his own sort of normalcy, who was he to try and take that from him?

Phil had meant to see if the kid would fall asleep, but he ended up drifting off before Barton did. It had been a very long night. But he woke briefly a short while later and saw that Barton was indeed fast asleep.

* * *

 **Author's Note :** Alright, you know the drill! Please let me know your thoughts! And be on the lookout for the next chapter, it's got a scene that I've had written for literally months and I'm excited to finally get to it!

* * *

 _ **Chapter Ten Sneak Peak**_

"Mr. Carson, I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time," Phil said. He deliberately kept his tone nice and friendly, not wanting to be mistaken for someone with malicious intent.

"We're a little busy here," Carson said distractedly, barely glancing over his shoulder at him. "We gotta get this whole shindig packed up and on the road tonight in order to make our show in Connecticut this weekend. Be careful with that!" The final statement was directed at one of the nearby roustabouts.

"I promise it won't take long," Phil asserted. "I just have a few questions for you."

That got the man's attention. He finally turned and really looked at Phil, sizing him up wearily.

"Health inspector?" he asked, a flat note in his tone.

"No, no, nothing like that," Phil assured him quickly. "My name is Phil Coulson. I just wonder if you know a guy named Clint Barton?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** And we're back! Yay for quick updates! Apologies for not responding to reviewers for the last chapter. I got swamped at work and figured you'd rather have a new chapter posted tonight than have more of my rambling gratitudes! But shout outs to **BrieCheese16** ; **The Red Screech** ; **Wayward Dragon** ; **XYZArtemis** ; **Bookkittie** ; and **ELOSHAZZY** for taking the time to review the previous chapter, I very much appreciate it!

Okay so slightly off topic and a wee little bit of a shameless plug… but I recently created a Tumblr account! I know, I'm WAY late to the game. But I needed a place to dump some mindless ramblings… so I figured I'd give it a shot! No promises that it's going to be very interesting, but if you'd like to check it out just search for Undercover Marvel Fan. The name came about because all my friends are obsessed with DC (which I also enjoy) but I don't have anyone to discuss my random Marvel theories and ramblings with. So far it's mostly ranting about Bruce and Natasha's relationship in Age of Ultron… apparently I've had a lot of pent up emotions about that!

Alright, done rambling now! Hope you enjoy this next chapter, I've had most of it written for months and I'm so excited to finally get to share it!

* * *

 **Chapter Ten**

"Alright, Barton, time to wrap it up," Phil informed him, glancing down at his watch.

Barton loosed the arrow he had just drawn, turning even before it hit the dead center of the target down the range. "Ten more minutes?"

"I gave you ten more minutes twenty minutes ago," Phil reminded him patiently. "C'mon, time to get going."

Barton sighed dramatically. He pulled the loop of the quiver – which he had wound through a belt loop so that it hung by his hip – loose and obediently handed it and the bow back over to Phil. Phil moved over to the nearby weapons locker that he had procured, scanning his palm to open it and securely storing away Barton's only two belongings. Barton watched carefully as he always did, seeming to need the reassurance that the bow and quiver would be safe for another day.

"You know, it wouldn't be the worst thing ever to skip just one study session," Barton pointed out as they headed out of the range. "You said so yourself, I'm gonna be ready to take that stupid test in another couple weeks. Why rush it if I have to stay two more months anyway?"

"Actually, we're not going to study tonight," Phil told him.

Barton's eyes widened comically as he suddenly clutched his chest with one hand and grabbed for the wall with the other, feigning a heart attack. "What? No studying? Has the world gone mad?"

"Ha," Phil said with no humor, not breaking stride and forcing Barton to jog to catch back up to him. "I thought we'd have a different kind of learning experience tonight."

Barton groaned as he fell back into step next to Phil. "Shoulda known it was too good to be true. What are you subjecting me to tonight?"

Phil paused in the hallway just outside the range, focusing on Barton.

"What would you think of shadowing Dr. Hendricks tonight?" he asked, studying Barton for his initial reaction to the idea.

Barton arched a confused eyebrow, seemingly more perplexed by the idea than anything. "Why?"

"She could show you some basic first aid techniques," Phil said. "It's something we have all recruits learn eventually, since there's not always the option to pop into a hospital in the middle of a mission. This'll give you a head start." Barton looked reluctant, so Phil went on. "This time of day, the infirmary is usually pretty slow. There shouldn't be too many people around."

Barton still had his aversion to crowds of people, preferring to train at odd times or in smaller gyms in order to avoid them. Phil suspected this was also why he wasn't thrilled by the idea of spending time in the infirmary, considering the last time he was there it was a flurry of activity.

Barton didn't look convinced though. "Uh huh," he hummed. "And you can't do that yourself?"

Phil should have known Barton would be too perceptive.

"I was going to sign you over to Dr. Hendricks for the evening," Phil admitted. "I have some SHIELD business I wanted to catch up on tonight. But if you're not okay with that I won't do it. We can just have our normal study session."

Barton considered the idea carefully for a minute.

"Yeah, I guess that'd be okay," he finally said, shrugging both shoulders.

"Are you sure?" Phil pressed.

"Yeah, it's fine," he said, sounding a little more confident the second time around. "I don't mind hanging with Hendricks. She's nice."

Phil nodded, feeling relieved.

To appeal to the bureaucracy, the exchange had to be made in the detention wing. There was some grumbling about this from Barton, but overall, he really did seem okay with the arrangement. Jac was already there waiting for them when they arrived.

"Well, look who it is," Jac said as the two entered the control room. She looked Barton up and down, having not seen him in about almost two months, since his dehydration and malnutrition incident when he first got here. "Looks like you're finally putting some meat on your bones, kid."

"Weird how that happens when people just hand you food every day," Barton said with a shrug.

It was a fair observation from Jac, Phil realized, glancing at Barton himself. He hadn't really noticed since he saw the kid every day, but now that he thought about it, Barton did seem much healthier these days. Certainly he was less gaunt and wiry than when Phil had first pulled him out of the Detroit Detention Center all those weeks ago.

"So, how's this work?" Barton went on. "Do I have to go back to my cell and come back out again?"

"No," Phil assured him. "This is just for the sake of paperwork. I just have to sign you in so that Dr. Hendricks can sign you back out, taking over responsibility."

"Like checking out a library book," Jac commented.

Barton snorted a laugh.

Phil rolled his eyes. No wonder Jac and Barton got along.

Phil signed Barton back in to the detention wing and then stepped back to allow Dr. Hendricks to sign him back out. They probably could have gotten away with not having to formally sign Barton over to Hendricks under other circumstances. But if Phil scanned his ID to leave the base and the system thought he still had a detainee under his supervision, he'd be denied.

And what he had in mind that evening was more than just mundane SHIELD business as he had insinuated.

"Alright, do me a favor and don't give Dr. Hendricks a hard time," Phil said after the transfer was made.

"Kill joy," Barton muttered under his breath, but there was a smirk playing at his lips.

"I'll see you tomorrow, kid," Phil promised.

There was just a flash of something in Barton's eyes for just a moment… relief? But then he blinked, and it was gone. The only outward response Barton gave to the statement was a stiff nod.

"Alright, Barton, let's go," Jac said briskly as she led the way back out of the control room, Barton obediently trailing behind her. "If you behave, maybe I'll find some poor soul for you to practice stitches on."

Phil watched them go and couldn't help but wonder if Barton looked like that when he followed him. Despite his obvious respect for Jac, he fell in behind her with a weary set to his shoulders and a submissive air to him. It was almost as if it were second nature to him to trail behind others. It was something he had taken a vague sort of notice when he had first started scouring Barton around the base, noticing that especially within the first couple day Barton seemed to instinctually fall a step behind. Perhaps it was a confidence issue?

"Try not to go too crazy with your night off, Coulson," one of the guards commented with a chuckle.

Phil laughed as he too headed out of the detention wing. "Don't you worry about that."

It was strange moving through the base without Barton by his side. He kept on pausing, thinking he was forgetting something before realizing it was just the absence of a snarky kid that put him unexpectedly off balance.

It had been almost two months and he had gotten used to having Barton around.

As he signed a car out of the motor pool, there was still lingering doubt in the back of his brain over what he planned to do that evening. He had gone back and forth over this idea for two weeks now, ever since Barton had finally admitted that he had lived with a traveling carnival for a good chunk of his childhood. On the one hand, he had the information he needed to add to the history section of Barton's file in order to make it complete in the event he agreed to be recruited. There was really no official need to pursue this any further.

But Phil couldn't help but feel like there was more to the story. And that was what was keeping him up at night these days.

As he left Barton with Jac that evening, he tried to tell himself that this was no different than checking in with Barton's old social worker. It was just part of responsible due diligence to make sure that there wasn't anything that was going to keep Barton from being a viable candidate for recruitment.

Of course, he didn't believe himself. Part of him just had to know what this kid had been through, what made him the puzzle that even Fury was having a hard time reading. And when he saw that Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders was doing shows just over the state line in Vermont that weekend, a mere two-hour drive from the base, he simply couldn't talk himself out of it.

He got there just as the night's show was ending, sending the audience flooding out into the field that served as the temporary parking lot outside of the large circus tent that was set it in the middle of what seemed like a small temporary town. It was more than just a circus show, there were venders at booths selling food and drink, small side shows scattered around – magicians, psychics, jugglers – entertaining even as the guests were leaving, even a few small mechanical rides scattered around, though they had already been shut down for the night.

As Phil leaned against his car, watching the carnival-goers all smiling and laughing as they exited, he couldn't help but imagine being a kid here, with all the bright lights and excited people. He had to admit… there were probably worse places to grow up, especially for a kid who had already experienced a lot of trauma in his short life.

He waited for all the guests to clear the area before he dared head into the carnival area. There were already workers hurrying around, tearing down the various tents, booths and rides, obviously getting ready to move on to the next town. Phil wasn't paid much mind as he moved through the organized chaos, simply quietly observing the surroundings. There was a train nearby that was being loaded, but also various trucks and trailers.

He couldn't help but pause and stare as he saw a group of kids – two boys and a girl all around twelve or thirteen years old – helping to pack up one of the booths. Did these kids have parents in the carnival? Or were they runaways like Barton and his brother had been?

Phil forced himself to keep moving after just a minute's pause, knowing that he was on the clock. Once the carnival was packed up, they'd be moving on and he'd lose this opportunity. The process was moving along at a surprising pace, everyone around him in constant motion, without so much as a pause between activities. Obviously, this was an event that was well practiced.

He found the man that he was looking for back behind the Big Top, supervising the dismantlement of one of the larger rides. Phil had done his research before making the trip, knowing that Frank Carson was the owner of Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders, having the traveling carnival passed down to him from his father years ago, much like it had been passed down for three generations in the Carson family. He was able to recognize the middle-aged man from a photo he had been able to pull from the DMV database. He took a deep breath, not wanting to waste any more time, and approached.

"Mr. Carson, I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time," Phil said. He deliberately kept his tone nice and friendly, not wanting to be mistaken for someone with malicious intent.

"We're a little busy here," Carson said distractedly, barely glancing over his shoulder at him. "We gotta get this whole shindig packed up and on the road tonight in order to make our show in Connecticut the day after tomorrow. Be careful with that!" The final statement was directed at one of the nearby roustabouts.

"I promise it won't take long," Phil asserted. "I just have a few questions for you."

That got the man's attention. He finally turned and really looked at Phil, sizing him up wearily.

"Health inspector?" he asked, a flat note in his tone.

"No, no, nothing like that," Phil assured him quickly. "My name is Phil Coulson. I just wonder if you know a guy named Clint Barton?"

Everything about Frank Carson froze at the name. Phil honestly wasn't sure what to make of the reaction. He had been expecting either a positive or negative association to the name, but this man was giving him a look like a deer caught in the headlights, unsure which direction to go.

"No, I don't," he finally said flatly, though there was pain brewing just underneath that tone. Phil could distinctly see the man blinking away barely contained emotion just before he turned his back to him. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

He started to move away, but Phil quickly shifted to cut off his escape.

"He's not in trouble or anything," Phil tried. "I'm just trying to find out some things about him."

Carson looked at him unsurely. He glanced around, and his gaze lingered on a small group of four boys looking to be in their early teens who were helping to gather up some wayward trash around the feet of the large roustabouts as they worked on tearing down the tents and booths around them. Something in him shifted.

"He… is he okay?" he finally asked, his eyes still on the boys. There was something off in his tone. A mix of emotions were suddenly detectable in his features… sadness, fear, concern…

Phil suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for this man. He could plainly see just how much he cared for Barton.

"Yes, he's okay," Phil assured him gently.

Carson nodded, looking undeniably relieved. "Good."

"I understand that he lived here for a while," Phil went on carefully.

Carson started to nod before quickly aborting the motion and quickly and firmly shaking his head, pain flashing in his eyes even as he did. "No, sir. The only kids around here are the children of some of our performers."

Phil nodded, finally understanding the problem. This was a far more sensitive topic than he had originally realized. It really should have been clear from the beginning. Carson was reluctant to admit to Barton's involvement in the carnival for the same reason Barton himself had been. This man could lose his entire carnival if it came to light that he was harboring runaway kids with no legal guardians.

That was why it had taken so much to get Barton to admit to where he had gone when he ran away from the foster care system. He had been protecting Frank Carson for taking him in.

"I assure you, I am not here in any kind of legal capacity," Phil said, spreading his hands in a way to show that he wasn't holding a badge and to show he wasn't armed like a police officer or FBI agent would be. "And I'm not interested in any labor laws or legal guardianships. I'm just…" He paused, still struggling with how to describe what he was actually doing here. "Mr. Carson, a couple months ago I came across this seventeen-year-old kid that seems to be in need of some guidance. I'm just trying to help him… like I think maybe you helped him years ago when he came to you needing a safe place to call home. But, I'm afraid I'm way out of my depth here. And I hope that if I can find out where he came from, maybe some of what he's been through, maybe I'll be better equipped to actually be able to help him."

Carson looked at him critically, trying to decide if he was being sincere or not. After a minute of internal debate, he finally nodded as he glanced around, though he still looked reluctant. He motioned Phil to follow him and led him to a nearby trailer. Inside it was clearly meant to double as the man's living space as well as his office. A desk surrounded by filing cabinets was down to one end while there was a lofted bed down at the other, with a table and kitchen appliances in between.

"I want you to understand, Mr. Coulson," Carson started as he sat heavily behind the desk.

"Please," Phil interrupted as he took a seat in a chair opposite the man. "All this is off record. Call me Phil."

Carson nodded. "Phil," he repeated, as if testing out the taste of the name. He took a deep breath. "I want you to know that I do not go out looking for minors to work here. That's not how this works at all. We have a fairly consistent revolving door when it comes to employees – the traveling life is not for everyone – but I have never had an issue with finding legal labor to work here. Even if it's just for a few nights while we're in town, there are always people looking for work."

"I understand," Phil assured him. "I am in no way accusing you of anything of the sort."

"Still," Carson said. "It's important for you to understand that. Because the fact is, so many kids have fantasies about running away and joining the circus. You would be surprised how many kids I get here asking me for work. And the majority of them I never even seriously consider. As soon as the novelty wears off or they find out how much work there is, they want to go home. I do my best to scare kids off, because the ones from good homes always scare off easily, and I'd like to think that they go home with a better perspective, more appreciative of what they have, you know?"

Phil nodded his understanding.

"But every so often, a kid or two comes along who can't be scared off," Carson continued. "Kids that beg me to take them in, to _let_ them pick up trash and clean out Porta-Potties in exchange for a tent to sleep under and some food to eat. You wouldn't believe some of the heartbreaking stories I've heard. And most of them come to me right from state custody. And I've just always figured… how can I send them back into a system that has failed them?" He took a deep breath and then met Phil's gaze. "So yes. I house runaways. And I know the risk, I could lose the carnival if it were ever to come to light how many of the kids running around here do not have legal guardians. But the truth of the matter is, no one is looking for these kids. Because trust me, if anyone cared enough to look for them, then I wouldn't have to take them in."

"So, you took in Clint and Charles?" Phil prompted, wanting to steer the conversation to the issue at hand.

"Yeah," Carson said. "Though his brother prefers to go by Barney. It was about seven years ago now as we were packing up a show in Iowa when those two were found stowed away in one of the storage cars on my train. A couple of my acrobats brought them to my trailer. Clint was a timid little thing at the time, all skin and bones and wouldn't so much as look at me as he stood behind his brother, his little hand fisted in the back of Barney's shirt like he was afraid if he let go he would leave him behind.

"Barney declared that they were looking for work, any work, in exchange for some food and shelter. I knew right away that they were going to be one of my heartbreaking cases. Dressed in ratty clothes, looking like a strong wind could knock them over and then Barney with this hard, determined look in his eyes like this was their best option in this world. I didn't even have to ask for their story to know how desperate they were. Clint was the youngest kid that I've ever taken in... but one look at him and I just knew that he needed it. And that was even before I saw his injuries."

"His injuries?" Phil asked.

"I told Renie, one of the acrobats who found them, to take them and find them a place for the night and we'd work out the rest in the morning. But as he turned, I could see dark stains on the back of Clint's t-shirt. I asked him to lift his shirt and the poor kid about starting hyperventilating. I think he was afraid of me. I got the distinct impression that nothing good ever came from an adult asking him to lift his shirt. But Barney explained that he couldn't lift it anyway. The blood had dried and had adhered it to his skin."

Carson paused, frowning deeply at the memory before continuing grimly. "He had taken quite the beating at the boy's home they had run from. He was so afraid of adult men at the time, that I had to have Renie clean him up, even though I was ready and willing to do it myself. He didn't even speak to anyone other than his brother for the first six months he was here." He met Phil's gaze. "So, I hope you understand why sending someone like that back into the system was _never_ an option."

Phil had to pause and absorb this for a moment. He remembered the social worker telling him that Barton stopped speaking after the death of his foster mother. So, for the nine months he was in his final group home and then the first six months that he was here, Barton was apparently basically a mute. That was over a year of not speaking. That spoke of trauma that Phil couldn't even imagine.

"I can't say that I wouldn't have done the same thing if I have been in your position," Phil told him honestly.

Carson visibly looked relieved at that statement, finally seeming to relax for the first time since Phil had stated Barton's name.

"Despite that, Clint was always a good kid. Even at ten years old, he was a harder worker than guys that were twice his age. Once he warmed up to us, he turned out to be a sweet kid. Always wanted to help out and was always looking for something to do. Once he came out of his shell he couldn't keep still unless he was dead asleep. That's actually how he got involved with some of the acts, because it was hard to keep him busy enough with the limited roustabout tasks he was able to do, being so small even for his age."

"So, he actually performed in the show?" Phil said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. He certainly had witnessed Clint's acrobatic ability, but somehow Phil still couldn't picture the moody teenager performing in a circus act.

"Yes, he did," Carson said, looking for all the world like a proud parent as he smiled at the memory. "He was twelve when he first made his appearance as a live target for our knife thrower. Kid was fearless. And put a mask on him and put him in front of an audience… he was like a whole different kid. He thrived on that energy. By the time he was fourteen he had his own act throwing knives and shooting a bow and arrow. He was also close with our acrobats and liked to practice with them. He never appeared in that act, though not for lack of effort. I always told him to keep practicing and we'd see about it when he was older. I never liked the idea of him up there without a net at his age."

"So… why did he leave?" Phil asked. It sounded like Barton had found a good life here at the carnival. But for some reason he decided to up and leave when he was sixteen. It didn't make much sense at this point.

The effect of this simple question was immediate. The slight smile on the carnival owner's face melted to a grim line. He swallowed thickly, and Phil could see pain shining brightly in his eyes. He leaned back and seemed to give himself a minute to compose himself before he finally spoke, his voice low and full of regret.

"You understand that we are a family here. Everybody pitches in to watch over the kids – both the ones with parents in the circus and those without. That's how it's always been, going as far back as when I was a kid growing up here. I've never had a reason not to trust anyone who's worked here for any significant amount of time… let alone someone who had worked here for more than fifteen years." He paused, taking a deep breath before he continued. "That night with Clint… it was one of the worst nights we've ever had here. And it was all because of a man that I would have trusted with my life… a man that I had trusted with _Clint's_ life."

"Who was that?" Phil asked, leaning forward.

"His name was… _is_ … Jacques Duquesne," Carson said flatly. "He went by the stage name Swordsman. He was, for all intents and purposes, Clint's mentor. He was a master knife thrower and he was the one who originally took on Clint as an apprentice. They had a bit of a strained relationship, but no more so than Clint had with most adult men. There were exactly two men that I can say with confidence that Clint didn't have a strained relationship with, so I never thought much of it."

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if just the thought of the next part caused his physical pain. Phil tried to brace himself for what was coming, but that was difficult to do when he had no idea what to expect. Then Carson opened his eyes again and he continued.

"I had no idea what was going on that night. I had been asleep in my trailer before I heard the yelling. I came out to see what was going on, just as Trinity, one of the acrobats, was running up to my trailer. She didn't make much sense in her panic, but I gathered that I should follow her. I remember it was cold that night with a fresh snowfall. It was early December and we had been in Illinois at the time. I followed Trin around to the back of the big tent… what I saw, I still have nightmares about."

He had to stop and compose himself again before he plowed on.

"Renie was on the ground, tears streaming down her face. She had Clint in her lap, cradled oddly. I was so distracted by all the blood on his face, I didn't even notice the knife sticking out of his back until Trin pointed to it." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "He was so still that I was convinced he was dead. It wasn't until Renie started yelling about a doctor and I saw him shift in her grip I realized that he wasn't. Not only was he not dead… he was _conscious_. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he was conscious the _whole time_."

Phil felt his stomach twist into an uncomfortable knot. He wasn't quite sure what he had expected when he came here… but it wasn't this. It wasn't more tragedy. This kid just couldn't seem to catch a break.

"We rushed him to the hospital," Carson said, his tone suddenly clinical, as if trying to distance himself from the memory. "We couldn't give his real name, so we gave the name of the son of one of our jugglers. He… he almost didn't make it. The knife had collapsed a lung and there was a lot of internal bleeding. The doctors said that the cold that night probably saved his life by slowing the blood flow. We held the tour over for almost two weeks, so we wouldn't have to leave him, cancelled shows in the next two cities. This was one of _my_ _kids_." His voice cracked. "I may have failed him, but I would never abandon him."

Phil shook his head, still trying to grasp all this information. He was still missing something. "How did you fail him? What actually happened that night?"

"It took a while to piece all of it together," Carson told him. "For days while Clint was recovering in the hospital, we really had no idea what had happened. It wasn't until I was shown the knife by the hospital staff that I realized… it was one of Jacques' knives. But by the time I went looking for him… he was long gone. And if I had known what was going on… I could have stopped it. I could have spared Clint from this."

"What was going on?" Phil pressed, leaning forward a bit.

"According to Clint, Jacques was stealing money from the carnival. And it made sense. I was never very good at keeping books." He gave a small sheepish smile at that didn't quite meet his eyes and disappeared as soon as it had come. "When numbers didn't quite add up, I never looked much into it. But Clint found out… and the damn kid confronted him about it. Told him he was coming to me to expose him." Carson shook his head. "He has an amazing moral compass, but the kid doesn't always think things through."

That certainly meshed with what Phil had learned about Clint Barton just in the brief time they had known each other.

"So, I take it Jacques didn't take it too well when Clint confronted him," Phil surmised.

Carson shook his head. "A fight ensued. Clint held his own pretty well, dealt out almost as much as he got, but he still took a pretty good beating. When it became clear that he couldn't outfight him, he tried to get away. It was when he was running away, with his back turned, that Jacques threw the knife. Renie and Trin heard him scream and came running… but Jacques was already gone."

Never in his life had Phil ever known a more literal example of the term 'backstabber.'

"Jesus," Phil said on a heavy exhale. He ran a hand over his mouth, feeling a bit ill. "I had no idea."

"He left us just about a month after that happened," Carson said grimly. "Just took off in the middle of the night without a word to anyone. Not even his brother. And we haven't heard a word from him since."

That sparked something within Phil. Just like with all the documents found on Clint Barton, the story had started out with the two brothers practically joined at the hip and then slowly phased out the elder Barton. It seemed to be a common theme.

"What ever happened with his brother?" Phil asked curiously.

"Well, he had recently gotten his GED at the time," Carson told him. "Soon after Clint left, he decided to join the Army. I get the feeling that he only stuck around for as long as he did because of Clint. I get a letter from him from time to time, so I think he's doing well."

Phil already knew most of that, expect for the part about him only sticking with the carnival because of Clint.

"But wasn't it strange that Clint would leave without saying something to his brother?" Phil pressed. After all, Carson had said so himself that Clint didn't even speak to anyone other than his brother for the first six months after they joined the carnival. That spoke of a close connection between the two. It seemed odd that a rift between Clint and his mentor would sever that tie.

"Actually, it wasn't really," Carson said. "The two of them had kind of grown apart over the years. I think when Barney turned eighteen, he felt held back by Clint. He wasn't satisfied by a life in a traveling carnival, not like this brother was. Once he came out of his shell, Clint took to the carnival life like a fish took to water. Barney, on the other hand, never rose above being a simple roustabout, but he also showed no interest in joining any of the acts. He tried several times to convince Clint to study and work toward his GED, but Clint had no interest in that. They had quite a few arguments because of it over the years that only got more heated as time went on. As they grew up, I think that they just found that they were very different from each other."

Phil nodded. He supposed that made sense. He checked his watch.

"I don't want to keep you," he said, knowing that the man had a lot of work to get done that night. "Is there anything else you think I should know about Clint?"

"He may seem like he's got a hard shell and is angry at the world, but he really is a good kid," Carson said sincerely. "He deserves so much more than what this life has given him so far. And if you have the chance to give that to him, have the chance to do better for him than we did… please don't give up on him."

"I'm certainly going to try," Phil assured him as he stood up and offered out his hand to shake. "You should know he was lucky to have you though. Despite what happened, he had a safe place to stay here for several years of his young life. And for that, I'd like to shake your hand and thank you."

Carson gave him a half-hearted smile as he reached out and shook his head. "I just wish I coulda done more for him." He reached into his desk and pulled out a business card, handing it over to Phil. "Call me if there's anything else I can do." He paused, debating his words before he spoke again. "And tell Clint… if he wants to call or write, I'd love to hear from him. We all would."

"I will," Phil promised, though there was a sinking in his chest. In order to fulfill that promise, he would have to admit to Barton where he had been that night. It was something he couldn't do quite yet, but down the line he hoped that they could get to a point where they could talk about this.

Phil turned and started heading back out of the trailer, not wanting to take up any more of the man's time so that he could get back to work. But just before he left, one last question popped into his head. He halfway turned back to the man at the desk, smiling slightly at the idea.

"When Clint had his own act… did he have a stage name?"

Carson grinned before he proclaimed in a ringmaster's enthusiastic tone…

"The Amazing Hawkeye!"

* * *

 **Author's Note:** What do you think? Unfortunately I don't have a sneak peak for the next chapter yet, I still need to flesh out how I'm going to get from here to chapter twelve, which is mostly written because my crazy brain can't write in a straight line, haha. But please review and I'll do my best to get the next chapter out in a timely manner!


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** Hello everyone! Thank you for your patience! I'm a little behind schedule due to getting sidelined by the stupid flu last weekend. And I struggled a bit with this chapter, just trying to figure out how to bridge to the next part. It was wandering aimlessly after this initial scene for a while, but I THINK I've brought it all together in the end. And just so no one gets lost, this first scene picks up just after where we left off in the last chapter, and then after the break we make another big time jump. Also worth noting, I'm VERY excited to get to the next part! So, stick with me, because things are about to start picking up!

Shout outs to those who reviewed Chapter 10! **Arie'Lizbeth** ; **Onlyinitforthestories2** ; **ELOSHAZZY** ; **IceDragoness1** ; **Hatter5151** ; **XYZArtemis** ; **TheRedScreech** ; **Guest** ; and **EmotionallyConstipatedOops**! You guys are the best! And with nine reviews, it's officially my most reviewed chapter! Woot woot!

Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanza, Happy Hanukkah, Merry Winter Solstice and Happy Anything Else You Celebrate to everyone currently reading this! I very much appreciate all of you and hope you have happy and safe holidays!

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven**

Despite the fact that it was approaching midnight by the time he got back to base, Phil wasn't really surprised to find that the light in Jac's office was still on. Even though the door was open, he knocked lightly, drawing Jac's gaze from the paperwork she'd been sorting.

"I just wanted to thank you for helping out with Barton tonight," Phil said, hovering in the doorway. "He didn't give you too much trouble, did he?"

Jac shook her head. "Minimal snarking and only a few eye rolls. I was actually pretty impressed. He's more chatty than he was when he first came here."

Phil nodded. "He's come a long way in just two months. There's still setbacks now and again, but overall he's adjusting better than I thought he would."

Almost like he belongs here already. He didn't voice that thought though.

They had finally seemed to have reached a balance in the last two weeks. There had been no more panic attacks, with Phil mindful of giving Barton breaks up on the roof at least every couple days. It was considered an unwinding time, one that was left unstructured. Outward resentment from other recruits has fizzled, with only a few still holding on to grudges... although there was still a fair amount of the staff and other agents that would give the pair suspicious glances. Still, Phil was counting any progress as a win for now. Barton had relaxed somewhat and overall, they seemed to have settled into a nice rhythm.

"I agree," Jac said, fixing him with a knowing gaze. "I was even a little impressed by how much first aid he already knew. Although that's a bit disheartening at the same time, since it probably means he's used to patching himself up." She paused and leaned back in her chair. "Now, do you want to come in and tell me what you were really up to tonight?"

"Was I that obvious?" Phil asked with a slight frown as he walked further into the office, dropping heavily into a nearby chair.

"You haven't left Barton's side for two months," Jac said. "Then, out of nowhere, suddenly you need an entire evening for some vague SHIELD business. It doesn't take a genius to put the pieces together."

"Do you think Barton put that together?" Phil asked. It wasn't something he was ready to spring on the kid just yet.

"Barton's not stupid," Jac pointed out what Phil already knew. "He knows there's more to this evening than what you were letting on. But I didn't get the sense that he was dying to know where you really were, so I doubt he'll dwell too much on it. You might be able to get away with it if you don't bring it up yourself." She tilted her head slightly, studying him with concern. "It looks like you didn't get good news."

"I'm still…" Phil had to pause and search for the right word, "processing."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Jac asked.

"The more I find out about this kid… the more tragedy I uncover," Phil said, leaning to one side and rubbing a hand over his forehead. "He's only seventeen years old and I can't even wrap my head around what he's been through. Lost his parents at six and very likely had an alcoholic father. Got bounced around to four different homes in the foster system, at least two of which he was physically abused in and the only good one he seemed to have he lost after the mother died. And then… he finally found a good place with this traveling carnival. For five years he had what seemed to be a safe, happy place. And then, that is violently taken away from him when he is attached and almost killed by his mentor." Phil took in a shuddering breath. "The fact that this kid is at all functional is nothing short of miraculous."

Jac was quiet as she seemed to grimly absorb this onslaught on information. Most of it she had already known – somewhere along the way she had become Phil's confidant with this whole situation. It was something Phil was extremely grateful for, because he wasn't sure how he would handle this overwhelming situation if he had to keep everything bottled up. She hadn't known about the horrific betrayal from Barton's former mentor though, and Phil wasn't in any state of mind to soften the blow. She looked a bit ill as she leaned forward and braced her elbows on the desk in front of her, lost in thought for several long minutes.

"Barton is resilient, you have to give him that," Jac finally said quietly. "I mean, despite the well-earned trust and abandonment issues, you're right, he's amazingly functional."

"But…?" Phil prompted, sensing there was more that she wanted to say.

"It's not necessarily a ' _but_ ,'" Jac hedged. "More of a _however_." She took a deep breath, pushing off her elbow and sitting up again. "On the one hand, you have the opportunity to give this kid stability. There's no question at this point that he'd make an excellent SHIELD operative and this could certainly be exactly what he needs to get his life on track. _However_ … you have to be all in with Barton, Phil. It's going to go beyond just getting him through the next couple months until he turns eighteen and then sending him off into the training program and moving on with your life. You know as well as I do that SHIELD is run by human beings, who can be fickle and flawed. If you dump him in the program and leave, eventually he will fail."

She met his gaze. "His sense of stability is not going to come from the organization as a whole. It will have to come from one specific person. You have to decide if you can commit to sticking with Barton for as long as he needs you to. Because if you can't do that, then you need to start backing away now before he gets more attached."

Phil quietly contemplated that. She was right, of course. It wasn't something he had really allowed himself to think about until this point, having been too focused on just getting Barton to his eighteenth birthday. He had been too busy just focusing on the present, he had neglected to put much thought into the future.

It was a fair question. Could he really commit to Barton like that? Could he put his entire career at SHIELD on hold for this kid that he had only known for a few months?

But the truth was, looking at the situation from his perspective, Barton had done that very thing for him. He was trusting him, despite all his instincts probably screaming at him not to. That trust was paper thin some days, but against all the odds it was there all the same. If Barton could find it in him to do that, after everything he's been through, couldn't Phil do the same?

"It's not a question you have to answer tonight," Jac assured him. "Sleep on it. But just know, the longer you're with this kid, the worse it's going to be if you decide you have to bow out."

Phil nodded. "Thanks, Jac. I appreciate it."

"Hey, if I'm not here for blunt honestly, then I have no idea why I'm here," she said with a smile. "Now go get some sleep, Phil. You look like shit."

Phil snorted a laugh. He couldn't appreciate Jac enough. She had become a close friend and confidant over the last couple months, to the point where Phil could hardly remember a time before she had arrived. She had such a strange mix of blunt honestly and true compassion, but it was exactly what he needed in this situation.

And it was all because of Barton. If not for him, Phil probably wouldn't have stepped foot in the infirmary in all these months. The kid had knocked him out of his routine and comfort zone. But maybe that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

"You get some sleep too," Phil said heavily pushed himself to his feet. "Don't let them bury you alive with paperwork… I'm sure I'm going to mess up with Barton again soon and I'll need you around to fix it."

"If you think I'm up this late because of paperwork, then you are more unobservant than I thought," Jac said as she began to pack up the paperwork that littered her desk.

Phil smiled. Of course. She had been deliberately waiting up to hear what Phil had found out.

"I'm a bit off my game tonight," Phil admitted, suppressing a yawn as he turned and headed out of the office.

Phil returned to his quarters, immediately collapsing in bed as the exhaustion from the day overtook him. He didn't sleep well though. He was woken several times throughout the night by dreams of screaming and blood… by dreams of a small boy that he couldn't protect from demons who wanted to hurt him.

* * *

"Look alive, Anderson, or I'm gonna let him knock your ass out!" Reynolds barked.

Phil smirked as the recruit – Anderson – went to dodge out of the way of Barton's feigned punch, and instead went right where Barton had wanted him to: tripping over a strategically placed foot and stumbling to the ground. Hank Reynolds, the head trainer in charge of the recruits, rolled his eyes as Anderson struggled to scramble back to his feet, but it was clear that he was also impressed by Barton.

It had been a tense process trying to incorporate Barton into sparring with other recruits. Despite his initial eagerness, Phil had seen a lot of Barton's control deteriorating when he was placed in the ring for the first time, his fight or flight instinct taking over as he faced off against a stranger. It seemed that in the heat of the moment it was hard for Barton to remember that this was just practice, and not a do or die situation. For Barton, this was not an exercise to build on skill – he had already passed these new recruits with his natural skill alone – but an exercise in focus.

Phil had to physically pull the kid from that first match after he broke a recruit's nose and almost broke his arm immediately taking him down. It didn't do him any favors in smoothing things over with the recruits, but it had been a necessary process to get through. After a few more tries though, and with Phil hovering close by under the guise of coaching, Barton had finally relaxed into the activity.

Just about three months in and Barton was finally starting to seem like a normal recruit. In another month and a half when he turned eighteen, Phil could certainly see Barton taking to the program like a fish to water.

Barton stepped back to allow Anderson a moment to regain his footing – a courtesy he had to learn to grant – his arms still hovering in a loosely defensive position, ready for Anderson's somewhat sloppy attempt at an offensive. The recruit was rattled by Barton, clearly angered by having his ass handed to him so easily in front of his training class by a kid who was a solid four years younger than him.

Phil pushed up from his crouched position at the edge of the mat, standing up to full height. Barton's eyes flicked to him knowingly even as he blocked an admittedly powerful roundhouse kick with both arms, pushing back to throw his opponent off balance. It was Phil's signal that Barton's sparring partner was about to lose his cool and that he should wrap it up.

This wasn't the first time they had run into this problem. As it turned out, when a seventeen-year-old without any real formal training kicks the asses of guys who had been working and training their whole lives for an opportunity like this, egos were easily bruised. And after that first match that had ended so disastrously, even though there was no permeant damage to that recruit, Barton had a bit of a target on his back.

Pressing his advantage while Anderson was off balance, Barton slid in closer and delivered two hard jabs to the chest, sending the recruit stumbling backward. He pursued, his eyes flashing dangerously… but the look was gone by the time that Phil tensed, before he could even think of intervening. That was a huge improvement on Barton's part, to be able to control the instinct to take things too far in a sparring ring.

 _This is just practice,_ Phil reminded Barton lowly before every sparring match. _You're not looking to seriously hurt anyone. Just take it nice and easy._

The takedown was clean, if a little hard as Anderson let out a pained grunt as he hit the mat. Barton dug his knee into his opponent's back, twisting his arm back behind him in order to solidly pin him to the floor. Then he calmly leveled his gaze on Reynolds, waiting for him to call the match while Anderson squirmed to no avail.

"Alright, alright, this is pathetic," Reynolds finally said with a sigh. "Match to Barton. Let him up, kid."

Barton was already letting go of the recruit, quickly backing away toward Phil as Anderson was angrily pushing himself to his feet, sputtering indignantly.

"Nice job, Barton," Phil complimented lowly as Barton approached. He jerked his head toward the bench behind him. "Get some water."

Barton shot an uneasy look at the group of recruits on the other side of the mat, but then he turned and headed over to the bench, reaching for the water bottle.

There was some controlled chaos after that, as Reynolds organized the next match and the recruits were all shifting around, a few of them heading for the nearby locker room as they were finished for the day. Phil admittedly was slightly distracted by who Reynolds was pitting against each other next… but glanced over just in time to see an angry Anderson breaking away from a group heading for the locker room.

"Incoming," Phil warned lowly as he carefully slid between Barton – his back still to the rest of the room – and the approaching recruit. Barton stiffened and out of instinct more than anything, Phil balled his hand in the back of Barton's shirt to keep him from turning toward the intended confrontation.

"He shouldn't even be here," Anderson snapped, his hands balled into fists but left down by his sides. He wasn't looking for a rematch, the recruits all knew by now that they couldn't get near Barton with Phil there, he was just looking to let off some steam. But Phil knew that letting the guy near Barton wasn't going to end in simply an exchange of words. Barton didn't do words. "He shouldn't be allowed to participate in training when he's not even a recruit here."

"That's not for you to decide, _recruit_ ," Phil snapped. "Now back up."

But Anderson continued to advance. "What, is he scared? Scared of what he would do if you let go of the leash? The guy is dangerous Coulson, when you have to stand between him and anyone with a problem with him, that's a red flag. He's gonna snap and really hurt somebody _again_ , and that's gonna be on you."

Phil now had a hand firmly planted on Anderson's chest to keep him from advancing further, his other hand still balled in the back of Barton's shirt. Barton, to his credit, didn't try to turn, keeping his back to the scene and out of the confrontation.

"You're the only hot head in this situation, Anderson," Phil growled. "Now back the hell up before I have you running laps until lights out."

Anderson glared. "Yeah, whatever. Keep treating Barton with kid gloves. See how that works out when you throw him into the deep end." Then he stormed away.

It was only when he disappeared into the locker room that Phil let go of Barton's shirt. And it was only as he did so that he realized grabbing the kid's shirt was probably not appreciated by Barton, who tended to avoid any kind of physical contact outside of the sparring mat.

"Sorry," Phil apologized as Barton turned, not missing the way the kid took a small step away from him in the process. "I didn't mean to grab you like that. It was just instinct."

"S'ok," Barton mumbled, not quite looking at him. "Can we get outta here?"

"Yeah, let's go," Phil agreed.

He allowed Barton to lead the way out of the training room, noticing the way the kid threw open the door to the hallway with more force than was necessary, sending it slamming into the wall. He didn't comment until they were a good distance away from the training gym.

"You want to talk about it?" he suggested.

"Can I get some fresh air?" Barton countered.

"Sure," Phil agreed. They were due for some outside time anyway and he knew Barton to be more forthcoming without four walls and a roof making him feel penned in.

In just the past week, Fury had given permission to give Barton more liberal time outside of the building. It was a testament to Barton's improvement with working within the system, but it was also a testament to Fury's desire to have him stay. He was clearly impressed by Barton's skills – though still tight-lipped about admitting it out loud – and it was his way of extending his own form of trust and respect toward the kid. And with this new freedom, Phil was hoping to get Barton more involved with the training programs.

However, he was still hesitant to take that step, given the tension that still existed between Barton and many of the recruits.

Phil waved Barton on to lead the way and fell in half a step behind him. He was making more of an effort these days to let Barton lead, mindful of how it not only gave the kid a sense of freedom, but also a sense of confidence. He walked a little taller with a steadier set to his shoulders than he did when he had first arrived here, physical proof that Barton's mindset had improved drastically since he had been here.

This place was good for Barton. Phil was damned sure of that. And he was committed to doing whatever was necessary to helping him be successful here.

He had to scan his own badge in order to unlock the door to the roof, but again Barton led the way outside. It was a warm day, summer in New York now in full swing. The sun was shining brightly, but a rainstorm from the night before gave the area a slight musty smell from where shadows had kept the water from drying up completely.

As Barton inhaled the fresh air, Phil could almost see a physical weight lifting off of the kid's shoulders.

As had become their routine, Phil didn't press Barton to talk to him while they were up here. The roof was Barton's time to do what he wanted. Sometimes he would talk to him and sometimes he would remain comfortably silent. Sometimes he would sit on the ledge, looking out to the woods beyond the perimeter fence, and sometimes he would simply wander around the maze that was the rooftop of the extensive SHIELD base. There was a section of the roof that dropped down two stories, and Barton often liked to find new and creative ways to ascend and descend the space.

Today, Barton wandered a little aimlessly through the space, though not straying too far from the access door. He kicked at some of the rocks on the ground, and Phil wondered if he wanted to have some target practice. They still had a few bottles laying around up here that Barton often liked to set up in various places and take out with well thrown rocks. But he didn't stoop to pick up any of the rocks. Instead he shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced over at Phil.

"Why do they get so mad?" Barton asked, seemingly honestly confused. "I did everything right, didn't I? I played by their rules. And they still get mad at me."

It was a fair question. Phil suspected that Barton saw the world mostly in terms of black and white. He didn't really understand that the majority of the world operated in shades of grey. He weighed his words carefully before he spoke.

"Generally, when recruits come into this program, they are all around the same skillset. We get the best of the best and build them up from there. But having the best of the best tends to come with abnormally large egos. We get a lot of alpha males that need to learn to share the spotlight… which doesn't come easily to a lot of them. And the nature of competition doesn't tend to help matters. Not all recruits will get the jobs that they want within this organization. So, some see it as in their best interest to tear others down in order to put themselves ahead." He paused. "Then you walk in here, years younger than the youngest of the recruits, and start showing them up… I'm actually surprised that there's only a few who are outwardly showing their frustrations."

Barton was quiet as he considered that.

"Seems counter-productive," Barton observed. "Considering we're all supposed to be on the same side."

"I agree," Phil said. "But it's the process we all have to get through. The ones who let their egos get the best of them won't get far in this organization. And the ones who learn how to work with those that they don't necessarily like or get along with are the ones who will be successful. It's an overall exercise in dealing with situations and people out of our comfort zones."

He was careful to catch Barton's eye before he went on. "I want you to know that I'm proud of how you handled that particular situation. The fact that you were able to let go and let me handle it was a huge improvement on your part. It most definitely does not mean that you're scared. Quite the opposite in your situation. You were brave enough to leave your back exposed, trusting that I wouldn't put you in a situation where you were going to get hurt. So, don't for one second let that nobody who has no idea how far you have come get into your head. Okay?"

Barton swallowed, then nodded, looking quietly relieved at the assurance.

Phil watched as Barton wandered over to the edge of the roof, hopping up on top of the raised ledge. Despite the fact that the ledge was a good foot wide, Barton tended to walk right along the far edge, a mere breath away from empty air as he put one foot right in front of the other. Phil had given up trying to encourage Barton to at least walk more toward the center of the ledge. The activity clearly calmed him, and save for a couple exaggerated wobbles that were clearly only meant to raise Phil's blood pressure, Barton had never come close to falling. And at least he wasn't practicing his handstands on the ledge today.

Barton walked steadily along the ledge, every so often dipping one foot over the edge as if testing the temperature of a body of water… but there was nothing but open air. They watched the sun steadily setting over the horizon.

"What do you think, Barton?" Phil finally prompted as the sun finally disappear, leaving the evening stars hanging over them.

"Study time?" Barton guessed flatly, not looking at him.

"Well done," Phil praised with a smile. "Shall we?"

There was low grumbling, but Barton hopped down off the ledge all the same, trudging in the direction of the access door. He waited while Phil scanned his ID to open the door and Phil waved him in ahead of him.

"We're almost done, you know," Phil had taken to reminding him. "You're just a few weeks away from taking your GED. Then we can cease the study sessions." There was something scratching at the back of his mind though, and had been for a while. "Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask," Barton said with a shrug as they headed back into the base, making no promises for an answer to the question.

"Why do you hate studying so much?" he asked. "It's not like it's a lot of effort on your part, everything comes to you pretty easily. So, why is a battle every evening to get you to do it?"

It had been something that had come up when he had met with Carson as well – something he still hadn't divulged to Barton. Apparently, Barton studying for his GED had been a battle between him and his older brother while they had been living at the carnival. And Phil wondered if it had caused the rift that had apparently happened between the two, one that was so severe that Barton hadn't once mentioned his older brother in the months he had been here.

Barton was quiet for a minute as they descended the stairs, and Phil suspected that he wasn't going to get an answer.

"I've just never seen a future for myself where studying was going to be helpful," he finally said diplomatically, taking Phil by surprise. "It's always felt like a waste of time to me. I've always just learned things as I needed them, and not much of it has been contained within a textbook."

"Well, now you'll be ahead of the game," Phil pointed out.

Barton shrugged a shoulder, unimpressed by the logic. "I guess."

They got to the briefing room that they had commandeered to be Barton's classroom. Barton dropped into a chair and picked up the small, rubber ball from exactly where he had left it the night before. Phil had figured out that Barton tended to be more compliant when he had something to fidget with. While they worked through the subjects, Barton would toss the ball around, bouncing it off of the walls, ceiling and floor, amusing himself as he indulged Phil with the activity.

But as they settled in, even that activity seemed more muted. There was something about Barton that just seemed especially heavy that evening.

"You feeling okay?" Phil finally ventured about an hour into the study session.

Barton was rolling the ball between his palm and the table absently. "Just… tired," he mumbled.

Phil studied him. The kid had deflated quite quickly that evening. And now that Phil thought about it, he had been losing steam quicker than usual during their nightly study sessions for the past couple evenings now.

"Have you been sleeping okay?" he asked carefully, knowing full well that Barton wasn't likely to admit it if he wasn't.

"Yeah, fine," Barton said automatically, his gaze falling down to the textbook in front of him.

"Uh-huh," Phil hummed, unconvinced. It was times like this that Phil remembered that Barton's trust was still a fragile thing and they still had work to do.

Luckily, he was willing to put in the effort.

He pushed Barton a little father through their study session, but as the kid's eyelids started to sag he decided to call it an early night.

"What would you say if I told you that you could skip going back to your cell tonight?" Phil asked conversationally as they organized his study materials for the next day.

"What?" Barton asked, more confused than anything.

"I think you've earned a break," Phil said. "If you want to try out a different floor tonight, you can crash on the floor in my room."

Barton blinked at him blankly for a moment. "Wouldn't that screw up your paperwork?"

Phil shrugged a shoulder. "I haven't been terribly busy lately anyway," he said. "I could use a challenge." He paused, and when Barton didn't respond he went on. "One night won't cause too much of a fuss at this point. Director Fury trusts you and I know the guards who are working tonight wouldn't mind a night off, since you're the only detainee at the moment. It's up to you, though."

Barton considered that for another long moment.

"You got a window?" he finally asked.

"I do have a window," Phil confirmed.

"Fancy," Barton said dryly. He paused again before he finally shrugged. "Yeah, I guess that'd be okay."

Phil was actually a little surprised that he had gone for it. It was dangerously close to admitting that he wasn't sleeping well by himself in his cell. But he wasn't about to push his luck by pointing that out.

"Alright," Phil said with a smile. "Let's go then."

As they walked, Phil used his phone to send a memo to the guards, saying that he was keeping Barton for an "overnight training exercise." In a way, it wasn't a complete lie. This kid could clearly use some pointers about the benefits of sleeping through the night.

Phil scanned his palm on the reader in order to open the door to his quarters. It was a standard room, not terribly large with a bed, nightstand, dresser, closet and a small, private bathroom attached. Barton looked around the space with a vague amount of curiosity.

"It's a pretty standard set up for most SHIELD employees," Phil told him.

Barton didn't appear to hear him as he moved through the space. He paused at the dresser, on which sat one framed photograph.

"Parents?" he guessed, looking at the two people that stood on either side of a ten-year-old Phil Coulson.

"Yes," Phil confirmed, moving to look at the photograph as well. He answered the unasked question. "They passed away several years ago. My dad was a construction worker and died after an accident at work when I was a teenager. My mom passed from cancer several years later while I was in college."

Barton nodded. Then, after a longer pause than was normally customary, he said, "I'm sorry."

"Me too," Phil said with a sad smile. "They were good people."

"Must have been nice," Barton said quietly to himself.

Suddenly, Barton's words from when Phil had first brought him here on the Quinjet echoed through his head: _"Yeah, and I guess you had a nice, normal childhood with two loving parents and a white picket fence, huh," Barton sneered. "And you just couldn't imagine why anyone would want to run away from home."_

"We didn't have a white picket fence," Phil said suddenly, before he had even realized that he was going to speak. "And while my parents were good people, that didn't go for my entire family." He paused. "My dad's brother, my uncle… he was in to some shady stuff. I didn't understand much of it when I was growing up. I just knew that Uncle Jerry would come around at all kinds of crazy hours, usually acting kind of funny. It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized that he was a drug addict."

Barton wasn't looking at him, but by the stiff set to his shoulders, Phil could tell he was paying rapt attention. So, he went on.

"I never did get the full story, but I do know that he came around one night more rowdy than usual. My dad told me to stay in my room. There was a lot of arguing and loud noises that came from downstairs. Then there were sirens outside. I looked out my window and watched as the police took away my Uncle Jerry in handcuffs. When I went downstairs, my mom was crying and had a black eye. My dad told me that everything was going to be okay now, that Uncle Jerry wasn't going to be coming around anymore." He paused, took a deep breath, and with an effort finished the story that he had only told a handful of people over the years. "The next day was when he had his ' _accident'_ at work. No one could really tell how it had happened, the safety measures in place should have prevented it. It took me years to really connect the two events."

There was a heavy silence.

"So… his brother…?" Barton said, glancing over at him.

"No," Phil said, shaking his head. "He was in jail at the time, he had no way to set up the conveniently timed accident. But I think his dealer did. He didn't like his customers getting sent to prison… cut down on business."

Barton turned back to look at the photo. "Why are you telling me this?" There was a suspicious note in his voice. He wanted to know if Phil was expecting something in return.

"I just thought it'd put us on a more even playing field," Phil said with a shrug. "I know about your past from your file. It's only fair that you know something about me too. Don't you think?" Barton didn't answer, and Phil didn't expect him to.

The whole truth was that Phil hoped that this would help smooth things over down the line when Barton inevitably found out just how much Phil had pried into his past.

Phil left the kid there, grabbing his pajamas from where they were folded on the bed and heading for the bathroom. After he had changed and went through his nighty bathroom routine, he reemerged to see that Barton had moved to the window on the far side of the room and was looking out it. He made a mental note, when Barton got his own room – _if_ he got his own room, Phil had to keep reminding himself that Barton's recruitment wasn't a given, that the kid still had the opportunity to turn down the offer – he would need a good view.

"I've got a change of clothes if you want it," Phil offered.

Barton shook his head, his eyes still on the window. "That's okay."

"Bathroom's yours then," Phil said.

After another moment's pause, Barton turned and headed for the bathroom, closing the door behind him. On a whim, Phil walked over to the window and opened it a generous amount. It was a warm night, the cool breeze actually felt pretty nice.

As Barton reemerged, his eyes immediately went to the now open window. There wasn't an obvious reaction… but Phil could have sworn he saw some of the tension release from the kid's shoulders.

"You sure you don't want the bed?" Phil couldn't help but offer. It went against all his instincts to let this kid sleep on the floor. "I don't mind the floor for a night."

"No, I like the floor better," Barton said as he moved over toward the window. "Beds are… too soft. It feels like I'm going to sink down through it. Like a marshmallow."

Well, that was something Phil could at least understand. He had heard former soldiers who were used to sleeping on the ground in Afghanistan for months at a time describe their beds in similar ways when they returned home. But it didn't make it any easier to hear the similar sentiment coming from a seventeen-year-old kid.

Still… Phil felt like he was missing something. He felt like years of sleeping on the ground while at the carnival wouldn't have caused such a strong aversion. But perhaps he was always going to be missing when it came to Clint Barton.

"How about a blanket, at least," Phil tried, not phrasing it as a question as he was already heading for his dresser. He kept a couple extra blankets in the bottom drawer.

Barton rolled his eyes, sending Phil an exasperated look. "Would that make _you_ feel better?"

"Yes, it would," Phil said matter-of-factly as he tossed a blanket to Barton.

Barton easily caught the blanket with one hand and then settled himself propped up in the corner of the room under the open window, placing the folded blanket down on the floor next to him. Phil forced himself not to say anything. He had to pick his battles. Instead, he silently hit the lights and then crawled into bed.

He heard Barton shifting around a little in the dark. Glancing over, he saw in the light from the moon outside that Barton had propped his head up on the wall, angled up toward the open window.

Despite the fact that he had done this for Barton's benefit, Phil found himself relaxing with Barton's close proximity. He had been having anxiety at night ever since that phone call he got while Barton was having his panic attack. It had become routine for Phil to check, recheck and triple check to make sure his phone was charged, and the ringer was nice and loud before he could even try and go to sleep. Being able to glance over and see Barton peacefully drifting off to sleep did wonders for Phil's own peace of mind.

It appeared that Barton wasn't the only one getting attached.

The thing about having the window open though, Phil was up with the sun the next morning. As he rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom, he glanced over at Barton and smiled. At some point in the night, the kid had pulled the blanket over his legs, looking marginally more comfortable curled up in the corner of the room.

 _Baby steps,_ he reminded himself lightly as he headed into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. _Baby steps._

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So, I took some liberties with Phil's backstory, because I don't think there's much of one in canon? I could be wrong about that, but hopefully it works! The next chapter is already pretty far along so I'm hopeful that I'll get it posted next weekend before the New Year! Fingers crossed!

* * *

 _ **Chapter Twelve Sneak Peak**_

"Really?" Barton said with a mischievous smirk. "You're gonna let me have my bow out there?"

"Just do me a favor and don't shoot anybody," Phil said dryly as he handed over the weapon.

"I'll do my best," Barton said, the smirk growing to just shy of a full-blown smile.

Phil chuckled at that. "Alright, I'll meet you back here when the training exercise is finished."

That caused Barton to pause, looking at Phil carefully. "You're not staying?" he asked, his tone decidedly neutral.

"Nope," Phil said easily. "You don't need me to hold your hand, kid. You'll be fine."

"Well, I know that," Barton said, seeming to try just a little too hard to be matter-of-fact. "I just wasn't sure that you knew how to do anything without me anymore."

Phil snorted. "Yeah sure. Now get out of here." He waved the kid away toward the gathering group of recruits.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** And here we go! I'm excited to get to this chapter (and hopefully you'll see why), so no rambling, just my shout outs and away we go!

THANK YOU to **EmotionallyConstipatedOops** ; **XYZArtemis** ; **Arie'Lizbeth** ; **TheRedScreech** (special thanks for pointing out peak vs peek, can't believe I've been getting that wrong this whole time! Ugh!); **Guest** ; **ELOSHAZZY** for reviewing Chapter 11… y'all are the BEST!

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve**

"What's this?" Barton asked, immediately plucking the envelope off the breakfast tray Phil had just handed him and spinning it between his fingers as he studied it.

There wasn't much that Barton didn't notice, and he had taken to pointing out anything that didn't adhere to the daily routine they had fallen into, no matter how small. The letter on his tray was definitely something new, but Phil couldn't help but be impressed with how quickly Barton had taken notice of it, half hidden under a plate.

"It's for you," Phil said simply as he took his usual seat at the desk in Barton's cell.

Barton shot him a skeptical look, thinking it over for a moment before he sat on the edge of his cot, setting his tray off to the side so that he could tear open the envelope. Phil waited while Barton silently read.

"Wow," Barton finally said mildly, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh, come on," Phil said, rolling his eyes. "You are _not_ surprised. You finished that test in record freaking time. I don't even think it was a challenge for you."

"It was a challenge to take the stupid thing seriously," Barton countered with a smirk.

"Based on the doodles you made in the margins, I'd say you didn't take it that seriously," Phil said, suppressing a smirk of his own. "And you still managed to pass with flying colors."

"Whoop-de-friggen-do," Barton deadpanned as he carelessly tossed the letter onto the bed.

"I know you don't think it's a big deal," Phil admitted, "but to the rest of society, having a GED is considered a very big deal. Whatever you decide you want to do with your life, this will be an asset. Proof that you're as smart as you claim for people who don't want to take a smart-mouthed kid at his word."

"It also means no more study sessions, right?" Barton said hopefully.

Phil couldn't help but laugh. "Yes. It means we are officially done with our evening study sessions. I don't know how I'll cope without having to drag you through that every day."

Barton rolled his eyes, but Phil couldn't help but wonder if he saw just a spark of quiet pride as his eyes wandered back to the abandoned letter for no apparent reason. Perhaps Barton had more pride in the achievement than he let on.

"Eat your breakfast," Phil went on. "We'll get some sparring in this morning and then I've got a surprise for you later."

Barton cocked a skeptical eyebrow at that. "A surprise? Really?" he said indignantly. "What am I, ten?"

"Do you not want a surprise?"

Barton considered this carefully for a moment.

"What kind of surprise is it?" he finally asked slowly.

"Trust me, you'll like it," Phil said with a knowing smile. "Now, eat your breakfast."

* * *

Over the last couple of weeks things had really evened out, and Barton seemed like he wasn't an official SHIELD recruit only by technicality. Things had mostly smoothed over with the other recruits, and Barton now participated in training activities almost daily. They still had about a month until Barton turned eighteen and could officially be offered a job here, but with the way that Barton now looked forward to each new training activity, Phil couldn't imagine the kid turning down the offer.

It seemed like he was made for this place.

After a solid sparring session, Phil led Barton down to the indoor shooting range. Barton was looking around curiously, still having no idea what the surprise Phil had in mind was. His confusion only grew as Phil handed over Barton's quiver, but kept his bow as he turned and led the way back out of the range.

They headed through the compound and until finally they came to the door Phil had been aiming for. He scanned his ID and led the way outside.

Up to this point, the only times that Barton had been outside had been on the roof when Phil gave him time to unwind every couple of days from being cooped up inside for so long. Those sessions tended to be in the evenings as the sun was going down. But now, he led Barton out into the training yard and into the bright sunlight of the afternoon. It felt quite metaphorical as he led the kid out of the shadows and into the summer heat.

"Agent Reynolds is holding a training exercise out here today," Phil finally told him, nodding down toward the outdoor shooting range where several recruits were already waiting. "And he approved the use of your bow during the exercise. He said it'd be a good lesson for the other recruits about using unorthodox weapons in the field."

Barton looked from the group of gathering recruits, down to the bow in Phil's hand and then back up at Phil. He could almost see the thought process, knowing that up to this point Barton hadn't been allowed to utilize any weapons during training. Fury had only approved this new development last night.

"Really?" Barton said with a mischievous smirk. "You're gonna let me have my bow out there?"

"Just do me a favor and don't shoot anybody," Phil said dryly as he handed over the weapon.

"I'll do my best," Barton said, the smirk growing to just shy of a full-blown smile.

Phil chuckled at that. "Alright, I'll meet you back here when the training exercise is finished."

That caused Barton to pause, looking at Phil carefully. "You're not staying?" he asked, his tone decidedly neutral.

"Nope," Phil said easily. "You don't need me to hold your hand, kid. You'll be fine."

"Well, I know that," Barton said, seeming to try just a little too hard to be matter-of-fact. "I just wasn't sure that you knew how to do anything without me anymore."

Phil snorted. "Yeah sure. Now get out of here." He waved the kid away toward the gathering group of recruits.

He watched as Barton trotted down the lawn to the group. He slowed as he approached, moving carefully as he eyed the other recruits critically. There were a few glances his way, but as he had been making appearances at more and more training activities, no one seemed terribly surprised or put out. Phil could see Barton relaxed slightly as he hovered at the back of the group as Reynolds started calling for everyone's attention.

Satisfied that Barton was going to be able to handle himself, Phil turned and headed back into the base.

He walked purposefully through the base, already knowing exactly where he was headed. He walked up to the third floor and headed straight for an outdoor observation deck that overlooked the training field. Just because he trusted Barton, didn't mean that he wasn't curious to see how he'd do with his first training exercise without Phil right there supervising.

Phil approached the railing, gazing out toward the outdoor shooting range that had been set up. Reynolds had just quieted down the crowd of recruits and was now launching into an explanation of what they would be doing that day. Phil scanned the crowd, quickly spotting Barton standing on the outskirts of the group.

Just as he spotted him, he saw Barton turn his head, glancing back toward the building. It only took a moment before he was looking right at Phil – who was at least a hundred yards away and three stories up – giving him a knowing smirk before turning his attention back to the lecture.

Damn kid didn't miss anything.

As Barton turned back toward the front of the group, he drifted closer, presumably to better hear the instructions that Reynolds was giving. There was a sharp ping from Phil's pocket, and he pulled out his cell phone to find that he had a new email. As he unlocked his phone, he realized he was a little behind on sorting through his emails, something that he struggled to keep up with over the past couple months while trying to balance work and supervising Barton.

That's what he was doing about ten minutes later when it happened.

He was absorbed in the task, his gaze firmly down on his phone as he sorted out emails that didn't need his attention, when there was a sharp, echoing _**CRACK**_ tearing through the air. His gaze snapped up immediately at the sound, his instincts bringing his body down into a hunched position in order to better utilize the wall in front of him as some cover at the same time that his hand was automatically reaching for his shoulder holster... which wasn't there.

His eyes were searching wildly for the source of the noise — his brain not fully comprehending what was happening just yet — when it came again.

 _ **CRACK**_ , _**CRACK**_ , _**CRACK**_.

There was screaming and panicking down on the lawn three stories below him, but Phil couldn't pay that any mind as he was rushing to one end of the observation deck toward where the noise was coming from. He kept in his slight crouched position as he moved, his eyes searching for what his body had automatically recognized, and his brain was just now catching up to as the sound came again.

 _ **CRACK**_.

Gunshots.

They were under attack.

Phil didn't think, he couldn't in the heat of the moment. Instead, he simply fell back on instincts and ingrained protocol as he dialed his phone.

"Hill."

Even though he had dialed Fury's direct number, Agent Maria Hill, Fury's new assistant, answered in a clipped tone. That meant that Fury was on another line about something more important. Chances were he already got a call about what was happening, so Phil decided it was safe to skip to the pertinent information that he had to offer.

"Shots fired on the east lawn, coming from the south," Phil reported, knowing his bird's eye view probably gave him the best vantage point on the unfolding situation. His eyes were searching the tree line for some sign of the shooter.

"Fury's on the other line with Reynolds, getting his report," Hill told him.

There was a pause and then a rustling and murmuring as the phone was passed on.

"Coulson," Fury snapped. "Do you have eyes on the shooter?"

"Negative," Phil said, looking over the wall toward the woods. "But I know what direction he was firing from. He must have been set up beyond the perimeter fence under the cover of the trees."

"Reynolds is getting the recruits inside," Fury said. "I'm sending a team down to the east lawn. Meet them there."

"Copy that."

He ran back inside, barely aware of the alarm blaring through the base and the people now flooding the halls, everyone talking over one another to be heard on cell phones and radios, getting their assignments in order to handle the situation at hand. Phil descended the three stories in a blur, bursting out of the building, though staying strategically placed within the alcove of the doorway so that he wouldn't present an obvious target in case the shooter was still in place.

It only took another few minutes for the team to arrive.

"Agent Coulson," Agent Andrew Conroy said as he led the team. He held out a handgun, which Phil gratefully took. "We've got an extra vest if you need it."

"No time," Phil said tersely. "There haven't been any more shots. The shooter's probably on the move. Let's go."

He was in his element. This is what he was trained to do. Phil led the team carefully along the outside of the base and out the southern exit in the perimeter fence. The team spread out into a long line before crossing the tree line, weapons at the ready and searching for signs of their sniper.

It was twenty minutes of searching, coming up with no sign of whoever had fired into the group of recruits, before the thought finally hit Phil with all the subtly of a freight train.

Barton.

He was used to these kinds of situations. He was used to handling it by staying calm, following orders and going after the bad guy. He was not used to the responsibility of having a seventeen-year-old kid under his supervision during this kind of situation. And he cursed himself for how long it took for him to finally have that thought break through his ingrained habits.

"Conroy, can you handle this?" Phil called.

"Yeah, we got this, Coulson," Conroy assured him before he barked out orders for his team to redistribute to fill the gap that Phil left as he backed out of the formation.

Barton was fine, Phil told himself firmly as he swung around and started hurrying back toward the compound. He would have stayed with the rest of the recruits, ushered back into the safety of the base by Reynolds. He'd track down Barton, ensure that he was okay and understood what was happening, and figure out how to proceed from there.

A quick call to Hill was all he needed to find out where Reynolds had taken the group of recruits. It didn't take him long to reach the small training room near the entrance where the recruits were being held until they sorted out what exactly happened and why there was a sniper firing at a bunch of newbie SHIELD trainees.

"What's the situation?" Reynolds asked tensely from his post guarding the door as Phil entered.

"All signs point to a single shooter that was positioned outside the perimeter fence," Phil told him quickly. "We canvased the area where the shots came from, but he must have taken off. There's a team in pursuit and it seems for now the compound is still secure."

Reynolds sighed in relief, relaxing his hand off of his holstered gun. "Jesus, this was not the kind of hands on training I had in mind for today."

"Is everyone accounted for?" Phil asked anxiously, already scanning the faces of the recruits that were gathered in clusters around the room.

"Yeah, three in the infirmary and the rest are here," Reynolds assured him.

Phil felt his stomach tightening as he didn't see the familiar face in the crowd. "Barton… was Barton hit?"

There was a pause.

"What?" Reynolds said, turning to him.

"Barton, he's not here," Phil said, scanning the crowd of recruits again just to be sure as he worked to control the panic that was trying to make its way into his tone. "Was he hit, is he in the infirmary?"

"Ah, shit, Coulson, in the chaos I forgot about Barton," Reynolds said, paling at the confession. Then he looked confused. "I… I don't remember seeing him after the shots were fired."

Phil was taken aback for a moment. "You… didn't see him? He didn't come in with the rest of the recruits?"

"There was a lot going on at once," Reynolds hedged. "He coulda come in and I just didn't notice in all the confusion. Maybe he went up to the infirmary with that group."

Phil nodded distractedly, a feeling in his gut telling him that's not what happened.

"Call me if you see him," Phil said shortly as he hurried passed Reynolds and back out of the room. He was already dialing his phone as he hit the hallway.

" _Hendricks._ "

"Jac, it's Phil."

" _No offense, Phil, but we're a little busy here._ " She sounded tense and there was a lot of noise in the background.

"Is Barton in the infirmary?" Phil asked bluntly.

There was a short pause. " _I don't see him._ "

"Can you look?" Phil pressed, knowing full well she hadn't done more than glance at her immediate surroundings. "It's important, Jac. He was outside with the recruits when the shots were fired and now I can't find him."

There was a heavy sigh. " _Okay, give me a minute._ "

Phil didn't stop moving as the line went quiet for several minutes.

" _Phil?_ "

"Yes?" Phil said.

" _I just asked around and no one here has admitted Barton or has seen him,_ " Jac said. But there was something strange in her voice, something unsteady. " _But one of the recruits here that just got winged… he says that he saw Barton go down outside during the attack. He thought he had been hit, but then didn't see him again after that in all the confusion. But he's not completely sure, thinking back he says that maybe he just tripped._ "

It was like swallowing a bucket of ice water.

"Shit," Phil spat. "Do me a favor, Jac, keep an eye out and let me know if you see him or if anyone else knows anything."

" _Will do, Phil._ "

Phil hung up just as he pushed into one of the computer labs. He immediately spotted Bradbury and made a bee line for the tech.

"Bradbury," Phil said immediately at he approached. "I need to see the security footage from outside."

"We haven't found the shooter yet," Bradbury said, glancing at him. "Seems likely he was out of the camera's range."

"I'm not looking for the shooter," Phil said tensely. "I'm looking for Barton. He was with the group of recruits when the shots were fired and now we can't find him. Do you have the footage?"

Bradbury nodded, closing a few windows on his computer so that he could open a different folder. "We just copied it and sent it off for analysis. I think I still have the raw footage here though…" He sorted through a few files before bringing one up. "Yeah, here it is."

"Start from when the first shot was fired," Phil said. "And zoom in…" he paused as he squinted at the screen, leaning in closer before he pointed at the one figure not in the standard recruit uniform. "Here."

A couple keystrokes later and Bradbury had fast forwarded the video and then zoomed in on Barton. The kid was turned away from the camera, his back squarely visible though his head was turned to one side, looking toward where Reynolds was lecturing. Bradbury slowed the video down to half speed before he hit play.

Immediately as the video started, Barton was turning his head, frowning as he looked in the opposite direction as the rest of the recruits. He shifted from one foot to the other – an uncharacteristic display of unease – and then he was passing his bow from where it had been resting loosely in his left hand to a more secure grip in his right hand. All this happened within a few seconds.

Almost as if he had known what was coming. Almost as if he could sense the attack before the first bullet was even fired.

"Here's when the first bullet is fired," Bradbury narrated, since they couldn't hear the audio amongst the noise in the room.

Phil didn't need the narration though. He knew the moment the shot was fired just by studying Barton. The kid's eyes went wide as he was lunging away from where the camera was positioned before anyone else around him was having any kind of visible reaction. In the slowed video, Phil could glimpse the bullet travel passed the kid at a downward trajectory, striking a recruit that had been standing a few feet from him in the thigh.

 _The shooter was positioned up high,_ Phil realized, filing that information away to be reported later.

There was some movement from the surrounding recruits when the bullet was fired – for most of them it may have been the first time they had heard the noise outside of the shooting range and didn't have the instincts yet to know how to react – but it wasn't until the first recruit went down with a spray of blood shooting from his leg that there was the panicked reaction that Phil had only been vaguely aware of in the moment.

"After the first bullet hit, three more were fired in rapid succession," Bradbury said, obviously having already watched the feed several times before as he pointed and traced each bullet's trajectory into the crowd of recruits who were now fleeing in several different directions, clearly unsure where the shots were being fired from.

The first of this round hit the ground where Barton had been just a moment before, the second winged a nearby recruit in the arm and the third caught another recruit squarely in the back of the shoulder. As Phil tracked both the bullets along with Barton's movements through the now panicking crowd, he couldn't help but notice something deeply disturbing…

The bullets seemed to be following him as he moved through the crowd.

"And then one more bullet was fired," Bradbury said. "It gets lost in the chaos of the crowd though, hard to see where it actually landed."

Phil could see the point, at this moment there were several bodies in between the camera and where the final bullet landed. There were also those same several bodies between the camera and Barton as he seemed to be moving away from the compound while most everyone else at this point was moving toward the compound. Phil had to swallow, as suddenly his throat felt unnaturally dry.

The five shots distinctly followed the pattern of a sniper with a single target. Initially, only one shot had been fired in hopes of a 'one shot, one kill' scenario to minimize the evidence. When that shot hadn't hit the intended target, hopes of stealth had gone out the window and three more shots were fired in hopes of taking out the mark. When those three had also failed to hit the intended target, the shooter knew he had one more chance before he would have to start putting space between him and the people who would soon be coming after him now that he had given away his location. So, he had paused to adjust, taking extra time to aim what he knew was going to be his final shot.

"Back it up to right before that last shot and slow it down even more," Phil said. "And zoom out just a little bit."

With a few clicks, Bradbury had keyed the video back up. With the speed slowed down even more, Phil was able to track the bullet to the precise spot it had entered the crowd… and from the zoomed-out perspective, he could see what he hadn't before. He could see just the top of Barton's head, barely visible within the crowd of people. He saw the way his head dipped, disappearing from view just a split second after the bullet entered the crowd.

Maybe he tripped… maybe he was dodging out of the way… it wasn't conclusive proof… or at least that's what Phil was trying to get himself to believe.

"Can you go back and zoom out farther?" Phil asked when he didn't see Barton reappear, even as the crowd was clearing out of the line of sight from the camera. "Barton disappears as the last shot is fired and doesn't reappear again."

"Yeah, sure, boss," Bradbury said, readjusting the video. "This is as far out as it goes."

As he replayed the moments of the final shot once again, Phil kept a close eye on where he knew Barton to be. A close call would have caused him to change directions. He scanned the edge of the camera's view, away from where the bullets were coming from. Sure enough, he could just glimpse one figure as he moved off screen, heading in a different direction from the rest of the crowd.

"There," Phil said, pointing. "He disappears off screen here. Can you pick up with another angle, see where he goes?"

"Sure, it'll just take me a minute because we didn't pull footage from that area before," Bradbury said as he immediately closed the window and started sifting through other files.

Phil did his best not to fidget uneasily as he watched Bradbury work. This was bad. There was no reason Barton should have disappeared. There was no reason he shouldn't have stuck with the rest of the recruits as they were ushered back inside. Why had he run in a different direction? Phil had a hard time believing that he had been looking for an out, not based on what he had witnessed over the last couple months.

"Here," Bradbury said, pulling Phil out of his thoughts and refocusing him on the computer screen.

Barton could be seen clearly in this shot, sprinting full tilt onto the bottom right corner of the screen with his back still mostly to the camera. But Phil couldn't help but feel relieved that he seemed to be unharmed judging by the way that he was moving. He watched as the kid crossed the entire screen, disappearing again at the top left corner.

"Where the hell is he going?" Bradbury murmured to himself as he closed the window with the video and went to look for the next camera over without being asked.

"Damn good question," Phil agreed quietly, his eyes glued to the screen as Bradbury pulled up the next camera more quickly this time and keyed it to the time of the shooting.

Barton entered at the top of the screen in this shot, threading his bow over his head as he was heading… for the perimeter fence.

"Where does he think he's going?" Bradbury said, confused. "He can't get over that fence…"

But Phil wasn't listening. Barton had paused at the fence, turning halfway to check his six, assumedly to make sure no one was following. And in that moment, Phil saw it. There was a growing red stain low on the left side of his shirt. Blood.

He had been shot.

Phil was hardly aware of the kid turning back and scaling the fence, seeming to defy gravity as he lifted himself with his arms and shifted his legs up over his head in order to vault himself into a backflip over the barbed wire at the top of the fence. As he landed on the other side in the crouch, Phil could see him land hard and stumble uncharacteristically.

"Pause and zoom in," Phil said tensely.

Bradbury quickly complied. Barton was still crouched on the other side of the fence in the frozen frame, one hand pressed to the blood stain on his shirt, the other thrown out and braced on the ground to keep him from toppling over. His face was twisted in pain and barely contained panic.

Fight or flight. That's what this was about. Phil could see it written so painfully plainly on the kid's face. Barton couldn't see anyone to fight, so his instinct had been to run.

"I don't get it," Bradbury said, leaning back in his chair as he too studied the screen. "He was shot… why would he run? Why wouldn't he come back to base with the rest of the recruits to get medical attention?"

It crashed over Phil in a heartbeat as he realized the truth.

"He blames us," Phil said quietly, almost as if he were talking to himself. "He thinks it was us…" Then he was turning, calling back over his shoulder as he headed out of the room. "Watch the rest of that. Find out which direction he goes, track him for as long as you can and then text me where the hell he went."

Later, he wouldn't be able to recall how he made it to Fury's office. The next thing he knew, he was barging into the office without even pausing to knock.

"Nick, I need permission for a search and rescue."

Fury regarded him with confusion from behind his desk. "The team is still out there tracking down the shooter, but I wouldn't exactly call it a _rescue_ mission."

"I'm not talking about the shooter," Phil snapped. "Barton was shot during the attack and took off into the woods beyond the perimeter fence. I need to go find him."

"He got shot… and he _took off_?" Fury repeated, furrowing his brow. "Why in the hell would he do that?"

"Barton's trust is a fragile thing," Phil tried to explain quickly. "He has practically been programmed to expect betrayal at every turn in his life. The only explanation I can think of is that his instinct is telling him that this is the betrayal that he had been waiting for. He thinks that we were the ones shooting at him, so he ran."

"Shooting…at _him_?" Fury said slowly. "Why would he think that when there were three other recruits who were also shot?"

"Have you watched the footage?" Phil asked.

"I've been a little busy for that, Phil," Fury said. "That's what we have techs for."

"Well, I watched the footage," Phil said. "It presented for all the world as an assassination attempt. The pattern is consistent with a sniper who had a single target. Barton of all people would have been able to recognize that pattern."

"And you think someone somehow tracked Barton here and tried to take him out?" Fury said skeptically.

"With all due respect sir, I don't have time to stand here and debate this with you," Phil snapped. "Whether it was or wasn't an attempt on Barton's life, the fact of the matter is that kid is out there right now with a bullet in his side. I'm here only as a formality, I'm going after him whether I get permission or not. I'm only here requesting because I'll need medical evacuation air support once I find him."

Fury studied him for a moment.

"Fine," he finally agreed. "Consider your search and rescue mission approved."

"I'll need a medic to come with me," Phil stated. "Barton's going to need immediate medical attention."

"Fine," Fury agreed with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Take Dr. Benton with you."

"I want Dr. Hendricks to come with me," Phil said firmly.

Fury blinked in honest surprise at that.

"Hendricks is not a field medic," Fury pointed out, sounding thrown off balance by the request.

"I don't care," Phil said, his voice dangerously close to a shout. He schooled his tone before he went on. "She's the only one that Barton's going to let anywhere near him." _Hopefully…_

"She hasn't had the proper training—"

"I don't care," Phil repeated firmly, cutting him off. "Barton is going to need immediate medical attention, and Hendricks is the only one who I trust to be able to handle him without making the situation worse." When Fury still hesitated, Phil went on. "Barton's got some serious trust issues, sir. If we want a prayer of getting close to him, we're going to need someone that he already trusts, someone that's he's already had contact with. I'm not going to have time to waste convincing him to trust someone new."

Fury sighed. "Fine, take her and get a team together—"

"No," Phil cut him off again. Fury simply raised a confused eyebrow at them. "No, team. Just me and Hendricks."

"You'll cover more ground if you take more people," Fury pointed out. "You said so yourself, Barton isn't going to have time to waste."

"I know," Phil said on a heavy exhale. "But this is the only way we can do this. The kid is running, he is scared, and he is armed. If anyone other than me or Jac finds him… I wouldn't be surprised if he starts shooting first and asking questions later. And you've seen his firing record."

Fury paused, but Phil knew that it was more for dramatic effect than anything. He knew he was right.

"Fine," Fury finally allowed with another dismissive wave of his hand. "Take Hendricks and head out immediately. I'll have a Quinjet prepped for med evac and waiting for your signal and coordinates." He leveled Phil with a hard gaze "Explain to Barton that we do not shoot our own and bring him the hell back here."

Phil couldn't help but smile at the implication. _Our own_. Barton might not realize it, but he was their own. Phil just had to get him to understand that.

"Yes, sir," he said.

And he was on the move again.

The halls of the base were controlled chaos. Everyone was moving to cover assignments, either heading out on the hunt for their sniper or heading to help secure the compound in case of another attack. Phil slid into the stream, letting the current of people carry him along until he arrived at his next destination.

The atmosphere in the infirmary was tense. It wasn't that they were overly busy, three injuries weren't anywhere near enough to overwhelm the staff. But, like the rest of the base, there was a lot of activity in anticipation of another attack. And even though it didn't seem like there would be one, it was better safe than sorry in these kinds of situations.

It took him longer than he would have liked to track down Jac, finally finding her giving directions to a group of nurses for stabilizing the recruit who had been shot in the shoulder before they took him in to surgery. As she spotted him she quickly finished her instructions before hurrying over to him.

"Did you find him?" she asked, her tone betraying her worry.

"Not exactly," Phil said. "I went over the footage and confirmed that he was shot in the attack… and then he ran. He jumped the perimeter fence and disappeared into the woods on the other side."

"He… _ran_?" Jac said, confused.

Phil didn't have time to explain it… again.

"Fury approved me to take you into the field," he said quickly, and she only looked mildly surprised by this revelation. "I need you to gear up and come with me to track him down. He's going to need immediate medical attention and you're the only one I trust to do that. You're the only one he's going to trust too."

"Okay, but I need to talk to you first," Jac started.

But Phil didn't want to wait. He already felt he had wasted too much time. Barton would have been out there, bleeding, for almost the better part of an hour now. They didn't have time to stand around and discuss, he needed action in order to feel like he was actually helping Barton in this quickly escalating clusterfuck of a situation.

"We've got the trail, we need to go out after him now, before it gets cold," Phil insisted.

Jac nodded. "Yes, I agree, but there's something you need to know first."

"We don't—"

"Phil, listen to me for just one minute," Jac said sharply, surprising him into silence. "The recruit who came in who just got winged… we just had to put him on a ventilator." Phil blinked, unsure how to process this information. "We placed a chest tube and found that his chest cavity was filling with fluid, despite the fact that there was no logical reason for it. We managed to stabilize him, but we didn't know what was going on until one of the surgeons dug out the slug from the recruit that got shot in the leg."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small object, placing it in Phil's hand. It looked like a bullet… with a small needle on the end.

"The bullets have a hollow chamber in them connected to the needle," she went on grimly. "We just got the preliminary bloodwork that confirms a foreign substance in the victim's bloodstream, though we haven't been able to identify it yet. The bullets were filled with poison, Phil. We don't know the full effects yet, outside of the respiratory failure."

Phil swallowed. If Barton was out there right now with this poison in his system…

"How are the other two recruits who were shot faring?" Phil asked, his voice suddenly thin to his ears.

"Neither one is showing signs of respiratory distress yet," Jac said. "We're not yet sure if there's different poisons or different dosages or if it's dependent on where it entered the body…"

The look on her face told him what she was unwilling to say out loud: there was no way to know how this poison was affecting Barton. There was no way to know if it had hit him as quickly as the first recruit… and if it had, without medical care, it was highly likely that he was dead already.

"Go get a field med kit and anything else you might need," Phil said firmly. "I'll meet you at the north entrance in ten minutes."

His resolve steeled as he turned and made his way back out of the infirmary in order the gather the supplies he needed for the search and rescue mission. This kid expected to be betrayed and he expected to be abandoned. Phil was hell bent on showing him that he would do neither. One way or another, he was going to find Barton and he was going to bring him back here.

He could only hope that he wasn't already too late.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Ahhhh, we're finally here! This is the point I've been working up to with this whole story! I needed to build up the relationship between Clint and Phil, give them a sense of trust with each other… so I could go and shatter it! *evil laugh* Please let me know what you think of this chapter and the direction this has taken. Hopefully it has the impact I was going for! And this will lead us into a much more exciting section of this story!

Hope everyone has a fun and safe New Year celebration! I hope to be posting again next weekend with the next chapter of this story!

* * *

( **Shameless plug :** in the meantime, I have gotten into the habit of posting little drabbles of random Avengers scenes that pop into my head on my tumblr if anyone is interested in checking it out! This site is lame about links, so just search for my blog called **UndercoverMarvelFan**.So far for drabbles I have two posted, they shouldn't be too hard to find, I don't have a whole lot just yet.

 _Auntie Nat:_ Natasha bonding with Clint's first child. Set within the MCU canon.

 _What is Necessary:_ The Avengers learn the lengths their two master assassins will go to look out for one another in the heat of battle.

Enjoy!)

* * *

 _ **Chapter Thirteen Sneak Peek**_

"Don't come any closer," Barton said in a low, dangerous voice.

Phil refocused as his eyes snapped back up to focus on the point of the arrow that was leveled steadily at his heart.

"How good is he with that thing?" Jac asked Phil carefully in an undertone, sending him a weary look from where she stood in the doorway, shielded by the open door.

"I've never seen him miss," Phil told her honestly, careful to keep his tone low and his eyes on Barton. He knew without a doubt that he was only alive right now because Barton allowed it. "Not even once."

"Super," Jac said dryly. Then she motioned him forward. "After you then."


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** And I'm back! This is another chapter that I'm excited for, and I'm up way later than I should be to get this posted, so just a quick thank you and away we go!

Shout outs to **Onlyinitforthestories2** ; **XYZArtemis** ; **Arie'Lizbeth** ; **Hatter5151** ; **TheRedScreech** ; **ELOSHAZZY** ; **Falcon Lair** and both **Guests** for reviewing the last chapter! I very much appreciate your feedback!

Fair Warning: Lots of cursing in this chapter. Clint gets mouthy when he's backed into a corner. ;)

* * *

 **Chapter Thirteen**

Admittedly, Phil's wilderness tracking skills were a little bit rusty. It had been years since he had done this kind of work. Lucky for him, in his panic – not to mention blood loss, judging by the trail that he left – it seemed that Barton was being uncharacteristically sloppy.

That was one of the only things working in their favor. Maybe… just _maybe_ , they would get a miracle.

Both Phil and Jac were stoically quiet as they made their way through the woods. Phil had his sidearm held securely in one hand as he kept careful stock of their surroundings. After all, the person who had fired on their base hadn't been caught yet and there was no guarantee that he wasn't still in the area.

Phil followed Barton's trail straight back away from the base for just over two miles… and then the trail took a deliberate and sudden turn, so abrupt that Phil originally completely missed it, and had to backtrack when the trail suddenly disappeared. When he managed to pick it up again, it was moving almost parallel to the base, though still angling away and further into the cover of the woods. But that didn't make any sense…

"Why would he change directions?" Jac asked as she trailed a few steps behind him.

"You got me," Phil admitted without looking back, his gaze carefully trained on the trail before him, not wanting to miss any other sudden turns. "I would think the logical thing for him to do would be to get as far from the base as he could. Unless…"

"Unless what?" Jac prompted as Phil was suddenly lost in thought.

Phil sighed heavily. "Unless he wasn't running. Unless he was regrouping and looking to track down the person who shot him. His first course of action would be to locate the sniper's nest. He's trying to track the sonofabitch down himself."

And if he believed that person to be with SHIELD, that meant he was planning on tracking the attacker back to the base… and then what? Storm the entire base as a one-man army? Phil had to pause and run a frustrated hand through his hair. Apparent reckless, bound-to-fail plan aside, this complicated things. Not only was this kid running from them, but he was on the hunt and probably looking to shoot anything that looked at him sideways.

"Damnit, kid," Phil sighed to himself.

They continued to follow the trail for another twenty minutes before he came to a place where he found evidence that Barton had stopped.

"Looks like he sat down here," Phil narrated as he crouched down and looked at the crushed grass and displaced dirt. Not to mention the small pool of drying blood, probably from the effort of sitting.

"Why here?" Jac asked, glancing around.

"Adrenaline might be wearing off?" Phil guessed.

He stood back up and continued in the direction Barton had been heading in before. Sure enough, he picked up the trail again, but this time he only saw footprints. After a few steps on the new trail he saw no fresh blood.

"Or, maybe he finally decided it was time to address the minor issue of the bleeding fresh wound," Phil said with dark sarcasm.

They continued to trudge on, Phil picking up the pace and grateful when Jac silently complied by keeping up. He did his best to focus on the trail, but his mind was whirling. Where had he gone wrong in all of this? How had they gotten to the point where Barton was running from him, even when he desperately needed his help? He thought they had made so much progress over the last couple months, but had that all been a façade? Or was there just more damage than Phil realized?

He was startled from his thoughts by a sudden buzzing noise, snapping up his gun and his frantic gaze searching the vicinity for a threat.

"Phil, Phil, it's just my phone," Jac assured quickly, and Phil sighed out the sudden adrenaline rush, though his heart was still pounding in his chest. He kept his gun halfway up as they paused while Jac fished out her phone. She looked down at the screen and frowned. "Just got word that another of the shooting victims has been put on a ventilator. That was after he had a seizure. They haven't been able to identify the poison yet, but they have been able to keep both victims stable on respirators for now." She looked up and her expression said what she could not.

They were running out of time.

Phil swallowed thickly. But when he spoke it was with resolute authority. "Alright. He's got to be slowing down by now, so we should be able to catch up. Let's pick it up."

They had to reach him in time. They just had to.

They moved at a quicker pace, just shy of a jog. Phil wished they could move faster, but he also couldn't risk misreading the trail again. They didn't have any time for him to have to backtrack if he missed another sudden change of direction at this point. He was also conscious of the med pack that Jac was carrying – which she had declined Phil's offer to carry for her – but to her credit, as well as Phil's immense relief, she never once struggled to keep up with him.

After another mile, there was another sharp turn in the trail, one that Phil thankfully caught in the moment. He couldn't stop to wonder why there was another seemingly random change in the pattern, all he could concentrate on for the moment was following the trail and hoping there wasn't a dead body at the end of it.

Finally, over two hours after the initial attack, Phil and Jac came upon a small clearing with a hunting cabin set in the middle. It was an abandoned cabin that was held together so precariously that it was a wonder it was still standing at all. SHIELD was well aware of the structure, in fact it was used during several of the advanced training exercises.

"He's dragging his feet," Phil observed as he crouched down to get a better look at the tracks at the edge of the clearing. His gaze traced the path. "He headed for the cabin. Probably looking for cover and a place where he could regroup and catch his breath."

 _Or looking for a place to quietly bleed out…_

Phil forcibly shook the unwelcome thought from his head as he took in the current situation. He couldn't imagine Barton could have made it much farther with the gunshot wound slowing him down. It made too much sense that he would have looked for a place where he could put his back to a wall and put up his last stand. That meant, in all likelihood, he was holed up in that cabin.

And if he thought that SHIELD had done this to him, he would assume someone would be tracking him down in order to finish the job. He would be ready for them.

"Phil, we don't have time for internal monologues or existential crises," Jac reminded him firmly. "Barton is either dying or dead. We have to keep moving in case it's the former."

Phil nodded, his resolve steeling as he pushed himself forward into the clearing. "Stay behind me," he instructed quietly as they moved. "Barton's going to be looking for a fight."

He cautiously approached the cabin, his gaze searching cautiously for any sign of movement. There was none, not even a breeze to rustle the leaves around them. Everything was completely still.

"Barton?" Phil ventured, knowing that his voice would easily carry through the thin, wooden structure.

There was no answer.

Phil took a steadying breath as he approached the front door of the structure, seeing immediately that it had been left open a crack. Slowly and carefully, he reached out his free hand and eased the door open, listening to the hinges groaning painfully from disuse. He led with his gun, knowing that there very well might still be at least one hostile still in the area. He deliberately swept the room looking for any sign of life, his eyes following the line of sight from his gun in a well-practiced move.

Honestly, he almost completely overlooked the figure in the otherwise empty room. It wasn't until he stepped fully into the room and was able to look past the open door that he spotted him. He immediately recognized him and as he did he flicked his gun in his hand ninety degrees, holding it out and up as he rotated the barrel to face straight up while clearly showing his finger was nowhere near the trigger. It was a small motion that he hoped the figure would take as a sign that he meant no harm.

"Barton?" he called, weary of the response he was going to get. "It's just me, it's Coulson. I'm here to help you."

He took a hesitant step forward… and froze as an arrow tore through the air, passing close enough to his temple that he felt the weapon skim his skin.

"Next one won't miss, Coulson," came a low voice burning with barely contained anger.

Phil swallowed as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he was finally able to make out Barton's features. He was sitting pressed defensively in the far corner of the room with his left knee up and his right leg stretched out in front of him. His bow was up and surprisingly steady given the circumstances, another arrow already nocked and pointed directly at Phil. He was pale, and a sheen of sweat had settled across his brow, but his eyes were what really caught Phil's attention. Despite his sickly appearance, his gaze was razor sharp and for the first time since they had met his eyes showed the emotions that he normally kept hidden. Anger, fear and betrayal all battled to be heard in a blue-gray storm.

His eyes were what cut Phil the deepest.

Then Phil's gaze fell and in the dim light he could just make out something dark and wet soaking the lower right side of Barton's t-shirt. As the clouds outside shifted, letting a ray of sunlight in through the window behind him, Phil could also spot a small puddle shinning up from the floor where Barton sat.

Blood.

"Don't come any closer," Barton said in a low, dangerous voice.

Phil refocused as his eyes snapped back up to focus on the point of the arrow that was leveled steadily at his heart.

"How good is he with that thing?" Jac asked Phil in an undertone, sending him a weary look from where she stood in the doorway, shielded from Barton by the open door.

"I've never seen him miss," Phil told her honestly, careful to keep his tone low and his eyes on Barton. He knew without a doubt that he was only alive right now because Barton allowed it. "Not even once."

"Super," Jac said dryly. Then she motioned him forward. "After you then."

He was reluctant though, wondering if Jac wouldn't be better at this kind of thing. He almost asked her if she'd try to talk to him, but then he realized what a bad idea that was. He had brought this kid here, this was his responsibility.

"I'm going to drop my gun," Phil announced. "I'm going to drop my gun so that we can talk. Please don't shoot me."

When Barton didn't move, Phil took that as permission. It went against all his instincts, given that there was still the strong possibility of a hostile in the area, but it was the only chance he had to get Barton to listen to him. He lowered his hand slightly before tossing his gun out of his reach, listening to it clattering across the floor.

"It's okay, Barton," Phil tried to assure him in a low voice, holding out his now empty hands. Then, slowly he lowered himself into a crouch in order to be more on Barton's level, trying to seem as unthreatening as possible. "We're here to help you."

"Get the fuck out of here, Coulson," Clint snapped, and the malice in his tone was physically painful to Phil's ears. "I don't need any more of your _help_." He spat the final word like a curse, making Phil flinch.

"That wasn't us, Barton," Phil said, and he couldn't help the note of pleading that clawed its way into his tone. "You know that, right? It wasn't SHIELD who shot you."

"Bullshit!" The word was accompanied a spray of saliva. He pulled the nocked arrow back a fraction more. Despite his gasped breaths, the point of the arrow didn't waiver, even for a moment. "Standing on _your_ super-secret base, and _I'M_ the only one who got fucking _SHOT_." By the time he finished he was shouting, his voice going painfully hoarse.

"We don't know how that happened," Phil insisted, mostly because he didn't know what else to say. "We're looking into it."

Barton coughed a slightly hysterical laugh at that.

"I'm not going to ask you again," Barton growled. "Leave me the fuck alone. I've always taken care of myself, I don't need you. So, just get the hell out of here."

Phil very much got the sense that he was talking this kid off a ledge. And he was suddenly terrified that he was going to jump rather than listen to him.

How the _hell_ had he gotten in this far over his goddamn head?

"I'm not leaving," Phil said in a low, calm voice. He met Barton's eyes, pleading with his gaze for him to listen, to _really_ listen. "Because if I walk out that door, you are going to die. Not only do you have a bullet wound that's still bleeding, but that bullet was laced with poison. If you don't get medical attention, you will not survive this. So, I'm going to stay and fight for you, because I want you to live."

"I don't—"

But Phil cut off whatever the kid was about to say.

"Use your head for one fucking minute, Barton!" he snapped, still in the low voice but now with a bite of impatience in his tone. Barton was looking paler by the minute, they were clearly running out of time and the frustrating part was that Barton himself was the only obstacle to getting him help at this point. "C'mon, kid, you are smarter than this! You've slept in a _locked_ cell every goddamn night since I brought you in. If SHEILD wanted you dead – if _I_ wanted you dead – don't you think there would have been far easier ways to accomplish that which didn't include firing live fucking rounds into a group of SHEILD trainees?"

That caused Barton to pause, his anger wavering to confusion for just a moment. Phil decided to push his advantage.

"I know that you are hardwired to expect betrayal," he went on, working to soften his tone. "You've experienced loss, abandonment and betrayal at every turn in your short life. But I need you to stop and think about this. _Really_ think this through, kid. I need you to understand what is actually going on here. I didn't bring back up to take you out, I brought a doctor to _help_ you. So _please_ … let us help you."

There was a long pause. The anger seemed to be draining from Barton's eyes, but that arrow still didn't waiver.

"How can I know?" he finally said in a small voice. And suddenly, he wasn't Barton anymore. Suddenly, he was just Clint, a kid who was hopelessly lost and couldn't see the way out even with Phil pointing right at the exit. "How can I really know…"

He didn't have to finish the thought for Phil to understand what he meant. It wasn't enough to simply point the way, Phil needed to take this kid's hand, he needed to lead him out of this darkness.

"You trusted Swordsman, didn't you?" Phil said gently. He knew it was a risk, but it was one that he had to take. Right now, it was all or nothing and all the cards needed to be laid out on the table. Clint's eyes widened at the mention of the name of his former mentor. "I know what happened. I know that he was your mentor and I know how badly he betrayed you, how he almost killed you. Clint… I _swear_ to you… I'm _not_ him. I'm not going to do to you what he did." Phil took a deep breath. "I can't offer you any concrete evidence. I wish like hell that I could. All I can do is ask that you trust me. Please, trust me, Clint. Please don't let your life end here and now, don't let it go down like this. You are destined for so much more than this, kid."

After a heavy pause, the tip of the arrow dipped ever so slightly. His eyes darted from Phil to Jac – who had taken a cautious step out from behind the door – and then back. Phil took a deep breath and then took a small, experimental step forward, still in his crouch and mindful of keeping both his hands in full view. Clint didn't move, didn't readjust his aim. Phil took that to be a good sign.

"Y-y'know… I got this pain in my side," Clint stammered.

Phil couldn't help but smile slightly at that. "Well, why don't you let us take a look at it?"

"Yeah… yeah that might be okay," Clint murmured, the tension of the bow string loosening ever so slightly as the point of his arrow lowered another fraction. There was suddenly a hazy look in his eyes.

"Okay, okay," Phil said calmly, crossing the rest of the distance between them, though cautious not to get any closer than he needed to. He couldn't help but notice that Clint's grip tightened on his bow as he approached. "I'm _not_ going to take that from you," he assured him patiently, motioning to the weapon in his hands. "But I do need you to lower it so that we can get a look at you. Is that okay?"

For what seemed like the longest moment of Phil's life, the kid did not move, did not so much as twitch, his arrow still half drawn and at this distance it would still be deadly if Clint wanted it to be.

Then slowly – agonizingly slowly – he eased off the rest of the tension on the bow string, bringing the nocked arrow carefully back toward the riser of the bow. Almost immediately, his arms began to shake as he finally rested the bow and arrow in his lap. His hands did not go so far as to release the weapon, but small steps were better than the stalemate.

"Okay, I need to look at the entry wound and then check for an exit wound," Phil told him as he carefully leaned closer to the kid. "Do you know if there is an exit wound?"

Slowly, Clint shook his head. "I dunno," he croaked, his voice seeming to drag up out of his throat. It seemed his adrenaline from the situation was wearing off. "Didn't look."

"Okay, that's fine," Phil assured him evenly, reaching out one hand. "I'm just gonna look." He pulled up Clint's shirt. He gingerly peeled back a patch of fabric that Clint had been using as a compress – realizing dimly that it was one of his socks – and got a glimpse of the entry wound, still bleeding sluggishly. Not good. He replaced the patch for now and then leaned down, careful to visually assess Clint back. "Shit," he murmured. He shot a glance over at Jac. "No exit wound."

"That means the bullet's still in you, Barton," Jac informed him, steadily moving forward toward them. Phil was impressed with how calm she appeared, considering this was her first time in the field. She slowly crouched down next to Phil, pulling her med pack off her back. "Could be dispensing more poison for all we know. Not to mention, we need to put pressure on that to stem the bleeding, and I don't want to do that while the bullet is still in there. So, we need to take care of that. Right now. Sound good?"

Clint swallowed thickly before he nodded once.

"I'm going to need you to keep talking too, Barton," Jac commented as she started digging around in her bag. "Let us know you're still coherent and oxygen is still flowing."

"Shit," Clint gasped as he attempted to shift slightly.

"That'll work," Jac said, not looking at him as she was suddenly intent on her bag of medical supplies. "Damnit, are you kidding me!?"

"What is it?" Phil asked, feeling panic rising within him.

"Some dumbass forgot to stock this pack with morphine," Jac snapped. She focused back on Clint. "Barton, when we get you back and all patched up, you get a free swing at whoever signed off on this pack to be field ready, sound good?"

Clint made a painful noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

"Alright, I like the enthusiasm," Jac said triumphantly, as if she had just gotten some sort of encouraging speech from the kid. She pulled out a package, tearing it open to reveal several sterilized instruments. "Phil, I need you to help Barton lay out flat. I called in our coordinates while you two were chatting, the Quinjet will be here any minute and I want this done before we have to move him, so we need to do this right now."

Phil couldn't put into words how grateful he was to Jac for keeping it together in that moment.

"Alright, Barton, ready?" Phil asked, knowing he needed permission from Clint himself before doing anything. He met the kid's gaze as Clint deliberately moved his chin down and then back up. "I'll need you to put down the bow, but you can keep the arrow. Okay?"

Barton carefully complied, setting his bow off to one side and shifting the arrow into a more secure grip in his left hand. Then he looked up at Phil and nodded, giving him permission to enter his personal space. Phil didn't waste any more time. He moved next to Clint, threading an arm behind him and helping him shift away from the wall. Clint gasped in pain at the movement, but there was no time to take this slowly. Supporting him as best he could, Phil leaned Clint back until his shoulders were resting on the floor. However, Clint's posture remained painfully tense, his back arched up away from the ground and his knees still up.

"C'mon, kid, stretch it out," Phil encouraged, tapping on one of Clint's knees. "Deep breath, breathe through it." Clint took in a ragged breath as he painfully stretched out one leg, and then the other. "Good, Clint, just another couple minutes and we'll get you in the jet and get you some painkillers, I promise."

"Alright, Barton, here we go," Jac warned as she pulled up Clint's shirt to reveal the wound again. "This is going to hurt like hell, but I need you to keep as still as you can and remember to keep breathing. Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah," Clint grunted shortly. He wasn't looking at either of them, but rather staring determinedly straight up at the ceiling. Phil's hand was hovering awkwardly near Clint's shoulder, wanting to offer some comfort but unsure if Clint would reject the physical contact.

"Okay," Jac said steadily. "On three then. One."

"Shit!" Clint gasped as Jac's tweezers disappeared into the bullet hole, his head snapping up before quickly falling back down to the ground. To his credit though, his abdomen kept absolutely still. "What the fuck happened to three?!"

"Count to ten for me, Barton," Jac instructed calmly, her eyes steadily on her work.

"Shitshitshit," Clint gasped, squeezing his eyes closed, his breath hitching in his chest.

"Hey, open your eyes," Phil commanded firmly, his fingertips ghosting over Clint's shoulder. The kid's eyes snapped open and sought him out. Phil forced his tone to remain calm. "You heard Jac. Start counting. What comes first?"

"One," Clint ground out.

"And next?" Phil prompted. Clint clenched his jaw, taking in a ragged breath through his nose. "C'mon, Barton, Jac clearly forgot how to count. There are, in fact, more numbers that come after one."

"Ah!" Clint coughed, the muscles his chest spasming painfully. But then he went on to answer, his eyes still on Phil. "Two." He inhaled sharply through his nose. "Three. Four." Both were said on the same harsh exhale of breath.

"Good, keep going," Phil encouraged.

"Fivesix," Clint slurred on a sharp inhale, grimacing hard. His breath rushed back out with a pained groan. "Seven." He hissed, his free hand fisting at his side. His eyes rolled away from Phil for just a moment, but before Phil could say anything his gaze snapped back to him. "Eight."

"Got it!" Jac announced.

All at once, all of Clint's muscles relaxed, so sudden that for a second Phil thought he had passed out. But he was still gasping desperately for breath, his eyes clouded but open.

"You did good, kid," Phil assured him with a comforting smile as Jac started packing the wound with gaze from her med pack, causing Clint to grimace and groan lightly. "I know veteran agents who couldn't have gotten through that without being restrained."

"The hard part's over," Jac added as she finished packing the wound, taping the bandages securely into place. She sat back and wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand before focusing back on Clint. "You still with us?" Silence. "Barton?"

Phil frowned when Clint made no attempt to answer. His eyes were still open, but he didn't seem to be focusing on anything. As Phil studied him, he realized his pallor had shifted from pale to ashen at some point. Before Phil really had time to realize what this meant, Jac was springing into action. Not pausing to ask for permission, she reached up and placed the back of her hand on first Clint's cheek, then after a moment his forehead. Even in his disoriented state, Clint shifted his head away from the contact, one hand halfheartedly lifting before weakly falling back to the floor. That's when Phil noticed the tremors in his hands.

"Easy, Clint," Phil said lowly. "Jac's just checking you out, okay?"

Clint's head shifted in Phil's direction, but his hazy gaze drifted right past him. Phil felt the beginnings of panic in his gut as Jac shifted to take Clint's pulse, first on his neck then on his wrist.

"Shit," Jac hissed. "He's going into shock."

She reached behind her and grabbed her medical bag and pulled it closer, several items falling out of it in the process. But instead of looking in the pack for supplies, she simply shoved it under Clint's feet in order to elevate his legs a bit.

Just then the roar of a jet drew Phil's gaze to the nearby window. He could just glimpse a Quinjet approaching.

"Just hang in there a little longer, kid," he said, turning back to Clint. "The jet is here, we're going to get you out of here and get you help. Okay?"

"I'll flag down the med team and get the stretcher," Jac said as she was quickly climbing to her feet. "Keep talking to him, I'll be right back."

Phil continued to speak encouragements to Clint, but it was like the kid had checked out. Everything seemed to have caught up with him and the shock seemed to be his body's only defense mechanism. Still, Phil didn't stop speaking, just in case any of his words were getting through to the kid.

Just a few minutes later, Jac returned with two members of a field medical team, who were carrying a stretcher between them.

"You stay there, Phil," Jac instructed, effortlessly maintaining control of the situation despite the fact that she now had her seniors on the scene with her. Phil had to admire her for that. She addressed the two men with the stretcher. "Put that down on his other side, we'll move him that way."

The authority in her tone left no room for argument as the med team did as she told them. It was a relief to finally be moving as they shifted Barton onto the stretcher that was laid out next to him and got him ready for med evac.

"Barton, if you can hear me, you're not gonna like this, but we have to strap you to the stretcher while we move you to make sure you don't fall off," Jac said quickly, explaining as she moved the straps on the stretcher into place. "It's just until we get to the jet though and I'll leave your arms free."

Clint tensed but didn't seem to have it in him to fight the restraints. Phil wasn't even sure he had really comprehended what Jac had been telling him, based on the hazy expression. But blessedly they were up and moving in the next moment, with Phil only belatedly remembering to grab Clint's bow and quiver before he was hurrying after them. He was anxious to get Clint back to base and safely within the walls of the infirmary where a team of doctors would be there to deal with any more complications.

In the next moment, they were climbing into the back of the jet that was waiting out in the clearing. Two more men appeared from inside and they were able to settle the stretcher on the floor in the back and set up a basic IV. While they worked, Jac was immediately undoing the restraints that held Clint to the stretcher, tossing them off before going about rechecking the kid's vitals. Phil was only vaguely aware of the pilots falling back to their stations and getting the jet ready for takeoff as he dropped down to Clint's other side. The aircraft was just beginning its ascent straight up into the air when there was a sudden, seemingly random sinking in Phil's gut.

 _Something's wrong._

He wasn't sure why he had the intrusive thought out of the blue. But it was insistent enough that it had Phil visually looking Clint over for any changes in his condition. At first, it seemed that nothing had changed. Then he felt Clint's hand reaching out, brushing against his sleeve. That in itself was odd. Clint Barton did not reach for anyone. Clint Barton did not seek out physical contact.

"Clint?" Phil said, confused as he leaned closer.

Clint's eyes were open, but he didn't answer. There was panic shining in his heavily lidded eyes. Suddenly, Phil was very aware that he was looking at a scared seventeen-year-old kid. Phil leaned closer, and that was when he heard it.

Wheezing.

As if Clint was barely getting enough air.

"Jac!" Phil snapped, looking to the doctor in a panic.

"What is it?" Jac asked quickly, doing her own visual assessment.

"I think the poison is taking effect, he's having trouble breathing," Phil told her, working to keep his voice calm, though he suspected vaguely that he hadn't been completely successful.

"Keep him calm, Phil," Jac instructed steadily as she pulled a stethoscope out of her bag. She shot him a look that clearly said, _which means you need to stay calm too._

Phil took a steadying breath, willing himself some composure. Then he caught Clint's hand, holding it carefully as he met the kid's panic gaze. He was vaguely surprised when Clint didn't pull away, but instead gripped his hand weakly, as if it were a lifeline.

"It's okay, Clint," Phil tried to assure him, leaning in close and speaking in a low soothing tone, drastically different from the panicked tone he had spoken with just a moment before. "We knew this might happen, it's an effect of the poison that was in the bullet. Jac is going to handle it."

"He won't make it back to base like this, we have to place a chest tube now," Jac said briskly after listening to his chest for a moment with her stethoscope, already turning to gather supplies.

They were only minutes from base. That really said how quickly this was progressing if he wasn't going to make it that far.

Jac's eyes locked onto Phil's even as her hands moved to set up the equipment she needed. "Keep his attention on you, Phil," she said lowly, her words only meant for his ears. "The painkillers probably won't take effect for another couple minutes."

 _Of course not,_ Phil sighed to himself.

He focused back on Barton, who was looking at him like he had all the answers in the world.

"You've got some fluid in your chest," Phil told him, just to be saying something. "It puts pressure on your lungs and makes it harder to breath. But you're still getting enough oxygen, so just focus on taking slow, deep breaths. Jac is going to drain the fluid so that it'll be easier to breath."

To his credit, Clint's breaths took on a slightly less panicked pace.

"Small pinch," Jac warned as she took a scalpel to Clint's uninjured side.

"Should be nothing compared to getting a bullet dug out of your side," Phil pointed out, straining to keep his tone light and not let on to the worry that was brewing in the pit of his stomach.

But as Jac sliced into his skin, Clint gasped in pain, his muscles tensing as his head whipped to the side Jac was on.

"Keep him still!" Jac snapped tensely and for the first time since all this started there was a note of panic in her voice.

But Phil was already moving. Keeping a hold of Clint's hand, he threw his other arm across the kid's torso in order to keep him down on the stretcher. Jac barely paused in her work.

"Hey, Barton, look at me," Phil demanded. But Clint didn't appear to have heard him, still struggling weakly against him. "Clint!" Phil said, shaking the kid's hand to get his attention. Finally, his head turned and his disoriented gaze wandered up to meet Phil's, then fell slightly. "I need you to stay calm. Jac is helping you, I promise. Just keep breathing, this is a temporary fix until we can get you back to base."

Clint's eyes were pinned to him, but his eyelids were suddenly sagging. Phil felt worried, until Jac spoke up.

"The painkillers are kicking in," she informed him calmly as she straightened. With a glance, Phil saw that the chest tube had been placed, a sick, yellowish liquid now sluggishly filling a clear bag. "It'll make him drowsy, he should be drifting off in a minute. Here. Run it wide open."

She handed over a portable oxygen tank with a tube and mask attached. Phil took the equipment and quickly adjusted the flow of the tank before placing the clear mask carefully of Clint's nose and mouth.

"This is oxygen," Phil explained, though it didn't really seem like Clint was aware enough to really be listening at this point. "It'll help you breathe easier."

"Prepare for landing!" came a call from the front of the jet.

Phil felt relief wash over him at the command. They had found Barton, brought him back to base and he was still blessedly alive. That was so much more than he had hoped for when he had set out in search of the kid.

As he looked down at Clint, he could see that the kid was fighting against the pull of the painkillers, fighting to keep his eyes open despite the exhaustion that consumed his every feature.

"I've got your back, kid, remember?" Phil reminded him softly. He placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, drawing the kid's attention back in his general direction, even if he still didn't quite meet his eyes, his gaze falling to down around the region of his chin. "You can stand down, I've got watch. I'm not going anywhere, and I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

Clint's hand contracted in Phil's and Phil thought he saw just a hint of something flash through his bleary eyes. Relief? Gratitude? Whatever it was, it had Clint letting his head relaxing to rest toward the side that Phil was crouched on. A couple heavy blinks later, and the kid's muscles finally relaxed as he drifted into the land of unconsciousness.

Phil gave a sigh of relief, though he didn't let go of the kid's hand. It was too close. Another half an hour and they wouldn't have found him in time. Another half an hour and the poison would have claimed him and they would have been returning to base with a body bag.

"He's stable for now," Jac reported as she sat back on her heals, looking worn.

"Think he'll stay that way?" Phil asked wearily as he felt the jet touching back down to earth.

Jac sighed. "Hard to say. Who knows what other kind of havoc that poison is going to wreak. And if he needs surgery for the bullet wound, which it'll be a miracle if he doesn't, we won't be able to do that until the effects of the poison wear off." She met Phil eyes. "This isn't over yet, Phil."

Phil nodded numbly as he brought his other hand to wrap around the one that held Clint's hand. He looked down at this kid who had trusted him, who had spent months working his ass off for Phil. And this was how he repaid him?

Phil vowed right then that no matter how this turned out, he would hunt down the person who had did this to them. He would find him, and he would end him slowly and painfully for putting them through this.

No, this was not over yet. Because Phil would make damn sure that when this was over, this person would never hurt anyone ever again.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Nope, not over yet guys! Still a lot to cover, we are just now getting into the thick of it! Please don't forget to review and let me know what you think!

* * *

 _ **Chapter Fourteen Sneak Peek**_

For the first time since this whole thing started, Phil was finally able to slow down and really think through all the events that had transpired. And one piece of information that he had filed away couldn't help but make its way insistently back to the surface. His words to Fury as he had frantically tried to explain the situation came filtering back to him.

" _It presented for all the world as an assassination attempt. The pattern is consistent with a sniper who had a single target. Barton of all people would have been able to recognize that pattern."_

And with that, came another thought that Phil hadn't had the time or energy to really consider until this exact moment.

What if Barton had been right?


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** Well. Hi there everyone! So sorry that this chapter is so late! I don't have a real good excuse… I was sick a few weeks ago, but these past couple weeks I've just been distracted. I very much appreciate your patience! It is a longer chapter, so hopefully it was worth the wait!

Also… WE HAVE SURPASSED 100 REVIEWS ON THIS STORY! Seriously, guys, that just blows my mind! Thank you for all your support with this, I've very much enjoyed working on this story and I'm so glad so many of you enjoy reading it! I hope you continue to enjoy the direction that I am taking it! Because we're not quite done yet!

Shoutouts to those who reviewed Chapter 13: **Onlyinitforthestories2** ; **IceDragoness1** ; **TheRedScreech** ; **Arie'Lizbeth** ; **EmotionallyConstipatedOops** ; **ELOSHAZZY** ; **Falcon** **Lair** ; **musicalishmonster** ; **Hatter5151** ; **m klindt** ; **XYZArtemis** ; and **Melissa**! You guys are awesome! And special shoutout to **LisaG16** for marathoning through the story and leaving multiple reviews, I very much enjoyed seeing your thoughts as you moved through the story!

This is just a fun anecdote. Just tonight, randomly as I was driving home, a line hit me that I SO WISH I had thought of earlier to have included in a previous chapter! (My brain just does not like linear plots, haha) I still might go back and add it in for future readers, but for your guys' entertainment, when Phil is trying to convince Fury to recruit Clint I wish I would have had Fury say "Phil, we can't recruit a seventeen-year-old _kid_ , we're not Russia." It would have been a simply stellar allusion to the acknowledgement of the Red Room! Hindsight is 20/20, right?

Anyway, I'm done rambling now, I promise! Hope you enjoy the chapter!

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen**

"I just got word that they identified the poison. The techs are hopeful that they'll be able to synthesize an antidote within the next couple hours."

Phil blinked blankly at the woman who had just dropped into the seat next to him, slow to comprehend what she was saying.

"They… did?" he finally said. His voice sounded strangely hoarse.

Jac nodded. "We compared blood samples from all four victims and confirmed the same poison was used on all of them, but there were probably different doses and that's why it effected each person a little differently and hit them at different times. If all goes well, we'll have an antidote later tonight and be able to take him in to surgery tomorrow."

"And what are the chances of it all going well?" Phil asked flatly, his gaze wandering to rest on the too-pale kid laying unnaturally still in the hospital bed in the private recovery room. Ventilator. Heart monitor. Several IVs with antibiotics, a blood transfusion and fluids. Several other wires and tubes all forcing Barton's body to stay alive.

"He's been stable for several hours now," Jac reminded him gently. "He just needs to hang in there for a couple more. We can't know anything for sure… but I'm willing to bet that he can handle that."

"Are you?" Phil said, his tone distinctly emotionless.

It wasn't that he didn't believe her. It was just such a hard concept to accept after what had happened.

It was burned into his brain. They had gotten Clint back to base, set up in the infirmary and his vitals were improving. Everyone was beginning to relax. Then, suddenly, Clint's heart monitor had begun to race. Before they could even begin to figure out what caused it, he went into convulsions.

The seizure had gone on for several long, agonizing minutes. Phil had been frozen in place the entire time, unable to do anything but stare while the hospital staff had worked around him in order to make sure he didn't hurt himself.

Finally, the episode passed. They were resetting the equipment, rechecking vitals, ordering tests to try and find out what had caused the seizure… when it happened again.

The scene repeated three more times before Phil had to leave the room.

"Only one of the other victims had a seizure," Jac pointed out. "I don't think it was a direct effect of the poison, it was probably more the strain of their injuries. It was only the two with the most serious injuries who had seizures."

"The other guy had one seizure," Phil countered flatly. "Barton had four."

"Barton was worse off, having been bleeding significantly for the better part of two hours," Jac reminded him evenly. "He was on the verge of hypovolemic shock from blood loss by the time we got him here. He's stabilized significantly since we started the blood transfusion." Phil felt a hand on his arm and mechanically turned his head to look at the doctor. "Take a breath, Phil. He's not out of the woods just yet but he's a hell of a lot closer than you're thinking."

Phil swallowed, his saliva burning down his raw throat.

"I just… I had one job," Phil said quietly. "Over the last couple months, I've had _one job_. Keep an eye on this kid." He shook his head and then waved one hand at the scene in front of him. "How can you not call this a colossal failure?"

"Because he's still alive," Jac said firmly.

"Setting the bar a little low there, Jac," Phil said with a snort.

Jac shrugged. "For today, it's enough."

Phil made a noise somewhere between a sigh of derision and a laugh… and even he didn't know which way it was leaning. They lapsed into silence for a minute, just listening to the machines keeping Clint alive.

"You know Director Fury was down here looking for you earlier," Jac said carefully. Phil nodded numbly. He didn't even want to know how many missed calls he had on his phone. "I told him I didn't know where you were and that he needed to stop crowding the infirmary… but he'll be back eventually."

Phil knew that. Under normal circumstances, he'd be the one running the mission to find whoever had fired on their base. He'd be helping to organize the techs, go through information, assign teams to track the son of a bitch down. He'd be on comms with the lead agent on the strike team, integrated in every step of the process and keeping Fury appraised on the entire situation.

But these were not normal circumstances. Not even close.

And Phil couldn't help but wonder when it had come to this. When he had become so attached that he was unwilling to leave a bedside vigil of a person who drugged into unconsciousness when there was a mission to be run.

"I'll give you another couple hours, Phil," Jac said quietly. "But then you're leaving and going to get some rest. You're not going to sit and stare at him all night when that's not going to make any difference to him at this point."

Phil quietly considered that for a minute. "I'll rest when he's had the antidote," he finally countered, though there wasn't much force behind his tone.

Jac nodded. "Fair," she agreed. "We should have that in a few hours anyway." She heavily pushed herself to her feet. "I'm going to check on the other patients. I'll be back in a little bit with some coffee."

And it was then that something dawned on Phil and he smiled up at her, even if the expression was a little worn.

"Wait… _you're_ going to check on the patients?" he said. "As in, _you're_ running the floor?"

And Jac smiled. "Yeah. Apparently, somebody was impressed with how I handled Barton's situation. That and it happened that the jackass that was running the floor was the same jackass who signed off on that med pack being field ready without any painkillers. And I may have pointed that out. Loudly."

"About damn time you got some recognition," Phil said. "I'm happy for you."

"Thanks," Jac said. She cast a look over at the kid. "Remind me to thank the pain in the ass when he wakes up. If it weren't for him, I'm not sure I would have made it this far."

Phil nodded, reflecting on that as Jac left the room. For all the bad luck that Clint Barton had following him around, he seemed to have a strangely positive effect on the people around him. Placing his trust in Jac had helped her prove herself to the other doctors on the base. Placing his trust in Phil had helped him to grow in a way he never would have if he had been doing the same old job for the past couple months.

Phil focused his gaze back on Clint, unnervingly still as a machine breathed for him. There was just something about this kid…

* * *

Phil didn't know he had fallen asleep until he was jerking awake again.

He blinked, confused for a minute as to where he was and what was going on. Finally, the recovery room came back into focus as the events of that day came crashing back over him. He went to focus on the bed and it took him another long moment to realize why he couldn't see Clint. There was someone standing between him and the kid.

"Jac?" he said blearily as he straightened and rubbed his eyes.

Jac glanced back at him and gave him a smile. "Welcome back to land of the living."

"How long was I out?" he asked, confused.

Jac shifted the chart she had been making notes on in her hand so that she could rotate her wrist and check her watch. "Probably only about an hour or so."

That got Phil's attention. He was suddenly out of his chair as his heart jumped up into his throat.

"Is he… is he okay?" he stammered thinly as his mind struggled to catch up, his eyes searching for any sign of change in Clint's condition.

"He's okay Phil, take a breath," Jac assured him calmly. She tilted her chart so that Phil could see. "They finally came up with the antidote probably just after you nodded off and his vitals have been improving. If this keeps up, we might be able to get him in to surgery tomorrow morning to repair the damage done by the actual bullet."

"They… made an antidote?" Phil said, hardly able to believe it.

Jac nodded. "Some of the other patients are already showing signs of waking. I'm going to keep Barton under sedation through the night though. I want him on the vent as a precaution until after surgery, and I don't want him waking up until after we remove it. If he panics when he wakes up, he could cause some serious damage to himself if he's still intubated."

"That makes sense," he admitted quietly, even though he didn't like the thought of the kid being drugged into unconsciousness.

"He's not going to be waking up until tomorrow at the earliest," Jac went on, watching Phil carefully. "And he's stabilized with the antidote. Which means you can go get some rest, Phil. Some _real_ rest, not just dozing in a chair for an hour here and there. You look about a medium size breeze away from hitting the floor."

"You'll let me know the second you even start to _think_ about taking him off the sedative," Phil said, though he couldn't keep the exhaustion out of his tone. He couldn't deny that it had been an incredibly long day, which was now stretching into the wee hours of the morning. It was the kind of long that wore on him in more than just a physical sense. But he would be damned if Barton didn't wake up to find him at his bedside.

Jac gave him a sympathetic look. "You'll be the first to know," she promised firmly. "Don't worry, I don't want him waking up in here without you with him to help keep him calm any more than you do. Now get out of here and get some sleep, Phil. I don't want to see you back here until the sun is back up."

Phil nodded. "I'll have my cell phone," he told her. "Call me if anything changes."

"Yeah, yeah, go," Jac said lightly, waving him out.

Phil started heading out but paused as his gaze snagged on something. Clint's bow and quiver were leaning in the corner of the room, right where Phil had left them without much conscious thought when he had first entered the room with the staff still trying to stabilize the teen. After just a moment's consideration, he grabbed both items, not wanting to risk them getting confiscated since technically weapons weren't allowed in the infirmary. Phil suspected the only reason they hadn't been taken from him immediately was because no one had noticed in the initial chaos. Then, with one last glance back at Clint, sleeping unnaturally soundly, he turned and headed out of the room.

There was still quite a bit of activity going on in the infirmary, but once Phil got out into the halls of the base the area was deserted at this time of night. He suddenly felt oddly detached as he slowly made his way back to his quarters, almost as if he were walking through a dream.

But the palm reader outside of his door was cold and solid, seeming to shock his system back to reality.

He walked into the room, blinking the cobwebs from his brain. He deposited the bow and quiver in a corner near the door and made a beeline for his bed, logically knowing that his body was exhausted and that he needed to get some sleep.

But as he perched on the edge of the bed, he suddenly found that he was no longer tired. In fact, now with the distance from Barton and the danger mostly behind them, he felt like he was finally starting to think more clearly.

For the first time since this whole thing started, Phil was finally able to slow down and really think through all the events that had transpired. And one piece of information that he had filed away couldn't help but make its way insistently back to the surface. His words to Fury as he had frantically tried to explain the situation came filtering back to him.

" _It presented for all the world as an assassination attempt. The pattern is consistent with a sniper who had a single target. Barton of all people would have been able to recognize that pattern."_

And with that, came another thought that Phil hadn't had the time or energy to really consider until this exact moment.

What if Barton had been right?

The footage from the attack was burned into his brain even from just the brief time he had spent studying it before going after Barton, and he went over the details yet again in his mind. The first bullet fired would have hit Clint if he hadn't moved at exactly the right time. The following three had followed his desperate escape attempt through the crowd. And the attack had ceased when Barton himself had finally be hit.

He hadn't been lying when he had told Fury that it followed the textbook pattern of an assassination attempt. And if that's what is had been, the target seemed obvious. All these years working for SHIELD, and this was the first time Phil had seen this kind of attack aimed at what was primarily a training facility. And this fact coupled with the fact that this was Clint's first venture outside of the walls of the base – save for their trips to the roof which would be a difficult vantage point for someone camped out in the trees below…

"Jesus," Phil murmured to himself as he hunched over and rubbed his hand over his exhausted eyes.

Because suddenly it was all crashing over him. All the pieces were slamming together in a way that he would never forgive himself for not seeing before this moment.

The Chicago incident. Phil had cleared Barton's name from the incident and had tossed the file aside, not wasting any more thought on what had happened that night. Not bothering to wonder why those three civilians had gotten shot or why Barton had been framed or even that Barton may have been the intended target to begin with. He hadn't thought it was important, too focused on trying to get Clint through these last couple months in order to be eligible for recruitment.

He had completely overlooked what would have been obvious in any other situation.

Clint had been fleeing the scene. The shots that killed those three civilians, they had been meant for Clint. And when he had escaped unscathed, whoever had been after him had framed Clint in hopes that not only would the trail be thrown from him, but perhaps the cops would take care of his target for him.

How in the hell had he missed that?

And the kicker was that now he was presented with that same situation. Three more injured – though thankfully none fatally – and Clint unconscious in a hospital bed, his condition stable but still critical enough to warrant life support systems. They were _so lucky_ no one had been killed. And it all would have been preventable if Phil had just seen what had been right in front of him.

It was then, in an uncharacteristic outward show of emotion, that Phil lashed out, swinging out at whatever was closest to him with a shout of frustration. The lamp on his bedside table when crashing loudly to the floor, shattering the ceramic body as well as the bulb.

It was oddly satisfying staring down at the destruction.

He wasn't quite sure how long he sat there before he kicked off his shoes and got up to turn off the overhead light before laying back on the bed, not even bothering to clean up the mess on the floor, instead just stepped carefully around it. Despite the exhaustion that seemed to weigh down on him, he didn't sleep well that night. There was too much on his mind, too much to think about, too much to consider. He lost count of how many times he grabbed the pen and paper that he kept on his bedside table in order to make notes.

If there was one thing about Phil Coulson, it was that he didn't make the sense mistake twice. He wouldn't be caught overlooking anything from here on out.

* * *

Fury glanced up only briefly as Phil walked into his office.

"Little late to the game, Phil," he said stiffly.

"I've been otherwise occupied," Phil said, undeterred as he approached the desk.

Fury sighed heavily as he leaned back in his chair and looked up at Phil. "I heard the poison antidote was a success and all the patients have stabilized."

"Yes, that's correct," Phil confirmed.

"And Barton?" Fury asked.

"Stabilized overnight," Phil reported. "He was just taken into surgery to repair the damage done by the bullet this morning. Doctors are optimistic for his recovery."

"That's good," Fury said. "So, are you good and ready to join the investigation into what happen?" There was just a hint of underlying sarcasm in the statement, clearly not happy by Phil's priorities during the situation.

But Phil wasn't bothered. He finally felt like his priorities were in exactly the right order.

"Yes, I am, thank you," he said briskly. "I'd like to divert at least a couple techs to look into people from Barton's past and compile a list of people who might target him. I would imagine in his travels playing a modern-day Robin Hood he's made one or two enemies. We also need to look into locating a man name Jacques Duquesne who has tried to kill Barton before. Stands to reason that maybe he wanted to finish the job."

For a solid minute Fury could only blink at Phil blankly.

"Phil… what are you talking about?" he finally demanded, leaning back in his chair and looking at him incredulously.

"I'm talking about tracking down the person responsible for the attempt on Barton's life while he was living on our base," Phil said, a hard edge in his tone daring Fury to argue him on the point.

Of course, Fury wasn't one to be discouraged.

"Phil, we've been over this," he said calmly if not a little annoyed. "The chances that this was an attack specifically meant for Barton is highly unlikely. Think about it: Barton may have made a name for himself on the streets, but he is a nobody here. Officially, he doesn't even exist here. We wiped all his records from the Detroit Detention Center as well as any evidence that you were there. Any paperwork regarding him being here has been kept vague and to a minimum because of the nature of the situation. The idea that some random gangbanger that he managed to piss off could have tracked him here is far less likely than one of _our_ enemies locating the base and looking to thin our numbers."

"Sir, did you watch the surveillance video?" Phil demanded.

"I did," Fury said evenly with a nod. "And Barton was standing apart from the crowd, presenting a clear target."

"But why focus on him?" Phil demanded before Fury could continue. "If it was a random attack just meant to thin numbers, even if the shooter missed his first intended target, why try to follow Barton through the crowd?"

"We don't know that that's what he was doing," Fury countered.

"We don't know that that's _not_ what he was doing," Phil said firmly. "With all due respect, sir, shouldn't we at least consider all possibilities until proven otherwise?"

Fury quietly regarded him, visually giving nothing away but Phil knew that he was having a hard time coming up with a counter-point to that logic.

Phil leaned forward, bracing his hands on Fury's desk as he pushed his advantage. "Sir, I get that it doesn't make much sense when looking at the big picture here. It makes no sense that someone could have tracked Barton here. It makes no sense considering all of the enemies we as an organization have compared to those of a seventeen-year-old kid who figured himself a low-level vigilante for a year."

He took a breath. "But forget all that for just a minute and focus on the isolated incident. Forget that this happened on a SHIELD base with our recruits. Let's say this is a random incident report that crosses your desk. Shots fired into a group of people. Three initial injuries, all within spitting distance of one individual who is on the move in the crowd. The attack ceases after just five shots are fired and that person has been hit." He paused, letting that sink in. "What would you classify that as, sir?"

Fury remained silent, but Phil knew that he had him.

"Nick, combine that isolated incident with the isolated incident that Barton was involved with in Chicago. I was so focused on clearing him from taking the blame, I never stopped to wonder why it happened in the first place. Now, what are the odds that Barton was that close to two different shootings within six months of each other if he wasn't a target?"

There was another long beat of silence, and Phil was starting to wonder if Fury was even listening to him when he finally sighed as he sat up in his chair.

"Reallocate Bradbury as your tech and have him run whatever searches you need him to. Tell him he can pull in a junior tech if he needs help. We'll go from there if he can turn up anything noteworthy."

"Thank you, sir," Phil said sincerely as he straightened.

"I'm not saying that I believe this crazy theory," Fury clarified with a dismissive wave of his hand. Phil may have imagined it, but despite the statement he thought he heard a small undertone of doubt in his voice. "But, you make a fair point about covering all our basis. Just on the off chance that hell freezes over."

"Understood," Phil allowed with an appreciative nod.

As he headed out of the office, he felt the clamp in his chest loosen marginally. As confident as he was in his theory, he knew Fury. And he knew going in that it was going to be a hard sell for the man, because while he had come to respect Barton and his abilities, he was still a relatively small blip on Fury's radar when it came to SHIELD business for the time being.

He paused outside the office long enough to take a steadying breath and checked his watch. Clint had been taken in to surgery almost an hour ago. Which meant he probably had another couple hours until he came out. That was good, that gave Phil some time to get things moving. While bedside vigils had unexpectedly joined his job description, he drew the line at sitting in an empty room waiting for news. He felt better with a task to accomplish and the ability to feel like he was being useful.

He couldn't perform surgery. But he could track down the son of a bitch who had done this to them.

The call came two hours later, much sooner than he had expected it. He couldn't tell much from Jac's tone as she told him that Barton had come out of surgery and that he should come by for a full report.

He immediately headed for the infirmary, heart pounding as he wondered if he dared to hope for good news.

As he entered the infirmary he immediately looked for signs of panic, force of habit more than actual worry that Barton's condition had somehow caused chaos in the wing. But everyone was moving about as if business was usual. He made his way toward the back of the wing where he knew the recovery rooms were situated. It didn't take him long to spot Jac standing just outside one of the closed rooms, carefully making notes on a clipboard.

As Phil approached, he looked through the window in the door. He could just spot Clint laying in the hospital bed. He took a moment to study him, looking for signs that anything was different, either good or bad. But Clint looked essentially the same as he had before they took him in to surgery: pale and still.

"How is he?" Phil asked, his voice suddenly inexplicably thin.

Jac looked up from the clipboard and gave him a reassuring smile that instantly eased the tension that had been building in his chest.

"The surgery went better than anyone dared to expect it to," Jac told him. "He was extremely lucky that nothing vital was hit and it basically just turned in to a patch job. With a couple weeks of rest, I would expect him to make a full recovery."

Relief crashed over Phil like a cool wave. He could hardly believe that they had gotten so lucky. His gaze wandered to take in Clint's still form through the window.

"When will he wake up?" he asked hopefully.

"I'm weaning him off the sedation slowly," Jac told him. "He'll probably be in and out of consciousness a few times over the next couple hours or so before he really wakes. I'm hoping that'll help ease him into the situation, so he doesn't panic. I can just see him trying to jump out of that bed and ripping all his stitches in a panic."

Phil cracked a morbid smirk. "Yeah. That sounds like Barton."

"Yeah, it does," Jac agreed. "And I'll be damned if we dragged his ass all the way back here only to have him bleed out in the infirmary. I've also already started weaning him off the vent and should be able to take him off of that completely within the next hour." She turned to look at him and motioned toward the door. "I hope you're ready to get comfy. Because you get the privilege sitting in there until he wakes up."

"If you insist," he said with a light laugh, as if that hadn't been the plan the whole time.

Despite the sedation, Phil was consciously quiet as he entered the recovery room. He was careful as he moved around the bed, taking in the machines that still worked to keep Clint stabilized. He grabbed his chair that he had occupied the day before and pulled it closer to the bed, wanting to be sure he knew immediately when Clint started to wake.

And then he settled in to wait.

True to Jac's prediction, Clint woke up several times over the course of the next couple of hours. There wasn't much more than confused, heavily blinking and some minor shifting in the bed though before he would drift off again. But each and every time, Phil would speak calmly and evenly to him, trying to instill in him the fact that he was safe now and on the mend.

Jac was in and out several times over the next hour, adjusting the ventilator until finally she was able to remove the tube completely and allow Clint to breathe on his own. It was a welcome sight as it was concrete proof that Clint was recovering. Phil couldn't help but look for signs of consciousness immediately after she left, getting hopeful every time the kid shifted and seemed to wake… but each time he drifted off again as quickly as he had woken.

It was another hour before there was another real change. The first thing Phil noticed was the hike in the rhythm of the heart monitor. That wasn't unusual, most of Clint's trips to brief consciousness were announced in this way. But the first hike was followed by another a few seconds later… then another. And as Clint's eyes finally began blinking open, there was something more blearily aware in them than there had been before. As he looked around the room, the rhythm of the heart monitor continued to climb.

"Take it easy, Clint," Phil said softly, drawing Clint's clouded gaze to him as he was still blinking himself to consciousness. "You're in the infirmary. You're going to be okay." His eyes strayed to the heart monitor, which had hitched oddly and showed no sign of slowing or evening out. "I need to you stay calm, kid. We found an antidote for the poison and you've been through surgery to repair the damage done by the bullet. But it's going to take time for you to recover."

But Clint didn't seem to hear him as he was shifting, trying to push himself up as he let out a pained cough.

"Whoa, whoa, easy," Phil said quickly, leaning in and reaching out a hand, letting it hover anxiously over Clint in an attempt to discourage his efforts without actually invading his personal space. "You try to move too much and you're going to hurt yourself. Just take it slow, okay? You want to sit up?" Clint nodded, his disoriented eyes still darting around the room, not quite focusing on Phil. "Okay, I can help you with that. The bed moves."

Phil grabbed the bed control and held it up so that Clint could see. Then he hit the 'up' arrow and the top of the bed carefully tilted upward. He kept a close eye on Clint's features and once they started to tighten, he stopped.

"You can't sit up all the way just yet, that wound needs to heal more first," Phil explained.

He looked uneasily up at the heart monitor, still beeping fast and irregular. He glanced through the window in the recovery room door, seeing Jac standing a few steps away with her arms over her chest as she watched the two of them, clearly monitoring the situation.

"Clint. Clint look at me." It took him a moment, but he finally looked up and met Phil's gaze. Phil was careful to keep his voice calm and even. "You hear that beeping noise? It's your heart monitor. Right now, your heart is beating too fast. I need you to calm down, or else Dr. Hendricks is going to come in here and make me leave and probably sedate you again. Neither of us want that to happen, but we'll have to if you can't calm down." He paused. "Remember the breathing exercise I taught you while you were having the panic attack? Breathe into your stomach, kid."

His eyes focusing in on Phil, Clint carefully took in a deep breath. Then another. It took a few minutes of deep breathing, but finally the rhythm of the heart monitor started to even out.

"My throat hurts," Clint finally rasped.

"Here," Phil said, reaching for the pitcher on the side table. He poured water into a nearby glass with a

straw. He started to reach for Clint but paused as he noticed the way the kid tensed. "Can I help?"

Clint thought that over, probably taking stock of himself, before he gave a small nod.

Carefully, Phil threaded his free hand behind Clint's head, helping him to lift it slightly before bringing the straw in the glass to the kid's lips. Clint carefully swallowed two small sips before leaning his head back. Phil leaned back in his chair, replacing the glass on the bedside table. Clint's gaze swept the room again before it focused back a little unsteadily on Phil.

"Where's… where's my quiver?"

Phil cocked a curious eyebrow at that. He knew that Clint was attached to his bow and quiver… but it still seemed like a bit of an odd question to ask when he had literally just woken up in the infirmary from a near death experience.

"It's safe," Phil assured him. "I brought it and your bow back with us and they're locked up back in my bunkroom. I haven't had a chance to get them back down to their locker at the range yet." Clint seemed to relax a fraction at that. Phil paused, contemplating carefully what he wanted to say to the kid. "How much do you remember about what happened?" he finally asked carefully.

But Clint either didn't hear him or didn't really comprehend the question in his still disoriented state as he still seemed to be shaking off the effects of sedation.

"How long was I out?" he murmured as he continued to struggle to take in his surroundings, sounding almost as if he were talking to himself rather than actually posing the question to Phil.

"About a day," Phil told him, pulling his attention back in his general direction.

He didn't seem to really see him though, appearing to look passed Phil as he shifted again in the bed, trying to push himself up higher before he winced and hissed a curse under his breath. His eyes darted around the room, a hint of panic growing in them as he seemed to start to really comprehend the situation, the fog in his eyes really beginning to clear for the first time.

"Can't I… can't I sit in a chair?" he said.

Phil frowned as he shook his head. "I'm sorry, but you're going to rip your stitches if you sit up too much right now. You need a few days to heal before you'll be able to properly sit up without hurting yourself." Clint's expression soured at that. Phil paused and contemplated for a moment before he willed himself to at least pose the question, even if he was unlikely to get an answer. "What is it? What is it about beds that you hate so much?"

Clint glanced at him a little skeptically. "I told you. They're too soft. Feels like I'm gonna sink right through."

"That's not the whole story though," Phil said. "That's not a social tick that a seventeen-year-old kid develops just because he's slept on the ground for a few years." Clint looked away from him, something flashing in his eyes that was gone so quick that Phil couldn't quite tell what it had been. "I just want to help, kid. But I can't do that if I don't know the whole story."

"Well, you're not gettin' the whole story, not today, Coulson," Clint suddenly snapped, still not looking at him. Phil was a little surprised by the force suddenly behind his tone, enough so that he leaned back a bit. But when Clint spoke again, all the fight had drained. "But I will say this. Carson's was the one place where I felt… safe. At home. And it was the first place where I wasn't given a bed. It just… feels better to sleep on the floor."

"Okay," Phil assured him. "Just know, if you're ever ready to tell me the whole story, I'm here to listen to it."

Clint nodded slightly. After a minute of heavy silence, he turned his head back to Phil, looking up at him with a note of confusion in his gaze.

"You… you knew," he said quietly as if the thought were only just dawning on him as he spoke. Phil couldn't tell if there was real accusation in his tone or if it was mere confusion. "You knew about Swordsman. How?"

His features weren't angry, but rather seemed carefully neutral.

Well, that answered Phil's question about how much Barton remembered about what had happened. Phil swallowed as he braced himself for the conversation they were about to have. There was no way around it. It was time to come clean.

"After you told me about Carson's Carnival, I paid it a visit," Phil admitted. Clint's eyes widened at this. "I met with Carson and he told me what happened."

There was a heavy silence as Clint seemed to struggle with how to handle this information.

"Why?" he finally asked.

It was a fair question.

"It's part of the recruitment process to have a full picture of a person's history," he heard himself saying, his voice sliding automatically into a more professional tone. "I just wanted to make sure I was getting the whole story." He paused and then sighed, his shoulder slumping forward. "That's a lie."

Clint arched an eyebrow at him. "No shit," he said flatly.

Phil leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands together as he braced his elbows on his thighs.

"I'm a little bit of a jack of all trades around here, helping out wherever I'm needed," he explained. "For the past five years, my time has been pretty well split between organizing and overseeing ops and helping to vet new recruits. And over the past five years, I can't even tell you how many files have passed over my desk pertaining to potential new recruits. I can't tell you how many people I have met and interviewed and inducted into this training program."

He took a breath.

"That being said…" He paused as he struggled to find the right words. "I've never been this invested before in a particular recruit. You see, I got in to this line of work with the ultimate goal of helping people. And over the years, I feel like I have lost sight of that a little bit, become a little too focused on the big picture. And after spending so much time with you over the past couple months… I just wanted to help you. I get that you've been through some shit in your life, Clint. But you are a good person and deserve better. And I just thought maybe I could help more if I knew what you'd been through and why you were so closed off."

It sounded strange. Phil knew that it did as he was saying it, but he had no other ideas on how to explain his logic.

"You had no right to do that, Coulson," Clint said quietly. "You had no right to go to Carson without asking me first."

But he still didn't sound angry. Only tired.

"Why keep it a secret?" Phil tried. Because he wouldn't apologize for something that had given him knowledge that had helped to save Clint's life. If he hadn't known about Swordsman, it would have been much harder to know what Clint needed to hear while he had been bleeding out in that abandoned building. "Why not tell me what happened?"

"Because it doesn't change anything," Clint said flatly. "It doesn't change what happened."

"No, it doesn't," Phil agreed. "But do you even realize why you ran when everything went down yesterday? I'm sure there were other factors, but this Swordsman character seems to have been the one to really ingrain in you that everyone in the world has the potential to be out to get you. You were so ready to accept the idea that SHIELD was trying to get rid of you just like Swordsman did that you almost _died_ rather than let us help you, Clint."

Clint was quiet as he seemed to contemplate that idea. He blinked heavily, and Phil knew that the exchange was taking a lot out of him. He decided to switch tactics for a moment.

"You know, Carson told me that he would love to hear from you," Phil said gently. "If you ever felt up to it."

Clint swallowed thickly, and Phil just glimpsed a deep pain pass through his eyes.

"I… I don't want to cause him any more trouble than I already have," Clint suddenly admitted. "When he had to take me to the hospital, if they had found out who I really was…" He let the thought hang as if it were too painful to finish.

Phil didn't need him to finish the thought though. While his life had been in danger, Clint had only worried about the hospital staff finding out that Carson was harboring runaway kids and losing the carnival, possibly even getting arrested.

The admittance hit Phil hard, especially as he remembered Carson's words to him.

 _"He may seem like he's got a hard shell and is angry at the world, but he really is a good kid," Carson said sincerely. "He deserves so much more than what this life has given him so far. And if you have the chance to give that to him, have the chance to do better for him than we did… please don't give up on him."_

"Admittedly, you know him better than I do," Phil allowed. "But you do know that he doesn't blame you for what happened, right? He was more concerned about saving your life than he was about what would happen if they found out about you. That says something about a person."

"I know," Clint said quietly, and Phil was surprised by the admittance. He was blinking heavily again, and Phil suspected that any energy he had managed to scrape together was wearing thin. "Frank… he's a good guy. One of the best I've ever known in my life. I'm just… not worth losing his carnival over."

There was a heavy pause that filled the room. Phil felt like he had to force air into his lungs in order to speak again.

"What should he have done?" he asked gently, already dreading the answer he was about to get. "Just let you die?"

Clint looked away, shifting his gaze to stare up at the ceiling. That was all the answer that Phil needed though. It was the real root of the problem. This kid simply had no sense of self-worth. He supposed it wasn't surprising considering the way that he was passed around throughout most of his childhood, but it was still a heartbreaking realization to have it laid out so plainly.

"I'm glad that he did what he did," Phil said quietly but firmly, even as Clint's eyelids were sagging. "And after just one conversation with him, I know that he believes that you were worth that." Clint blinked slowly, finally losing the battle for consciousness as his head pulled to one side. "Just like I do. And I hope that you'll learn to believe that too someday. Because you are worth more than you know, kid."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thoughts? I tried not to get to gushy at the end there, haha. And unfortunately, I don't have anything to offer you guys in terms of a sneak peek, I haven't started on the next chapter yet. BUT there is good news! Once we get passed this next chapter, my posting pace should pick up again, because I have large chunks of the next couple chapters already written (because have I mentioned how much my brain does not like linear writing?).

So, how about this then: if you are interested in a sneak peek for chapter 15, please leave a review that includes a request for one, and I will PM anybody who makes the request a sneak peak as soon as I have one available, hopefully in the next week or so. Sound good? But you have to review to get it! :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note :** Massive apologies for the wait, guys! It's been a crazy couple weeks! I very much appreciate your patience though! And the good news is that my updating pace SHOULD pick up again because I have large chunks of the next couple chapters already written!

Special shout outs to those amazing people who reviewed chapter fourteen! **Onlyinitforthestories2** ; **TheRedScreech** ; **roguehunterguardian** ; **ELOSHAZZY** ; **Hatter5151** ; **Claire181080** ; **Falcon** **Lair** ; **Jeskifire** ; **Reagangirl** ; **musicalishmonster** ; **125b** ; and **Scribbles-Dementia**! My love for you guys knows no bounds!

And with that… we continue! Hope its worth the wait!

* * *

 **Chapter Fifteen**

"Should… should he really be out of bed?" the nurse asked, glancing unsurely between Clint and Phil.

Phil raised his eyebrows as he shot a glance across the empty hospital bed toward where Clint sat. The kid was propped up in a chair which was pushed up against the wall by the head of the bed so that Clint could lean on it. The bed had been laid out flat so that Clint could brace his legs across it, easing the strain on his still healing side.

"Dr. Hendricks said that while she doesn't recommend it, it won't kill him to sit up for short periods of time," Phil explained calmly as he leveled his gaze back on the nurse.

Clint didn't comment, but simply sent her a tiredly arrogant smirk as he rolled a rubber ball between his hands, something Phil had brought him to fidget with. He had learned that Clint had two speeds: completely still or constant motion. And it was usually when he was supposed to be still that he was comforted by motion.

The nurse seemed far from convinced. Her eyes wandered up to heart monitor that Clint was still carefully attached to.

"His heart rate is a little high," she commented, shooting a look back at Phil.

"He's working on that," Phil said as he turned back to Clint. "Right?" he prompted.

Clint rolled his eyes, but also took a deep breath as he leaned his head up against the wall. He continued breathing deeply for a minute and the beeping of the heart monitor began to even out. But the nurse didn't seem comforted.

"I should probably check his vitals, just to be safe," she said as she stepped more fully into the room.

Phil was on his feet before Clint had lifted his head from where it was braced on the wall, the kid's slow reflexes a product of the painkillers that still flowed through his IV. Even so, that damn heart monitor spiked again with the tension now in Clint's features.

"I'll do it," Phil said steadily as he came between Clint and the nurse, lifting a hand to stop her advance. "I'll keep an eye on his vitals and let you know if they start dropping."

The nurse eyed him skeptically for a moment, trying to shoot a glance over his shoulder at Clint, but Phil shifted in order to keep her focus on him. Finally, she sighed in resignation.

"Fine," she finally relented. "But if he ruptures something and has to go back into surgery for internal bleeding, that's going to be on you, sir."

"Noted," Phil agreed calmly as the woman spun on her heels and headed out of the room.

"She seems fun," Clint said dryly from behind him.

"She's not wrong," Phil pointed out as he turned back toward the kid. He was still startlingly pale and there was a bleary look in his eyes as he shifted to rest his head up against the wall again. "You really should still be laying down until you've healed some more."

"I've been laying down enough," Clint mumbled, his eyes sliding closed for a moment.

"I didn't realize you were smarter than the doctors here, my bad," Phil quipped as he moved forward and perched on the edge of the bed in front of the kid. "I'm going to check your pulse."

Phil had been helping Jac check Clint's basic vitals over the last couple days so that at times like these he could easily step in when Jac wasn't on duty, given that Clint hadn't warmed up to any of the rest of the infirmary staff. Checking his vitals had become routine over the past couple days, but Clint was still tense throughout the process. Phil already knew that fact alone skewed Clint's vitals a little on the high side, but it wasn't enough that Jac was worried about it.

Clint snapped his eyes open and his gaze immediately sharpened as Phil reached for him. But in a show of compliance that he hadn't shown just a day ago, he transferred the rubber ball he had been fidgeting with to his left hand, rolling it between his palm and thigh and leaving his right hand free. Phil carefully took the kid's wrist, resting his fingers on the pulse point.

"I've been laying down for like a week," Clint pointed out wearily, continuing with their conversation even as his eyes remained fixed on Phil's hand.

"Three days," Phil corrected as he matched up Clint's extremity pulse with the heart monitor. A little fast, but they matched up, which was a good thing. "Considering you had a poisoned bullet in your side, that's a very short amount of time." He reached for the blood pressure cuff sitting on the side table and held it up in full view. "Blood pressure," he announced just to be as clear as he could.

The kid's blood pressure was a little high, but not outside of what Jac had deemed to be a reasonable level considering the stress. He grabbed a stethoscope and checked Clint's respiratory rate and found it to follow the same pattern. High, but not unreasonably so.

And then all that was left was his temperature. It should have been one of the simpler checks; other than checking his pulse on his wrist, Phil considered it to be the least invasive check. But for some reason, this had become the biggest struggle, and Phil still wasn't sure why. For a moment, he considered skipping the check altogether. But Clint's temperature had been rising – granted only by small degrees, but still concerning – over the last couple hours. It was something he knew Jac was keeping an eye on, weary of the chance of infection. If he was checking his vitals anyway, he might as well check all the vitals.

"Almost done," Phil assured him as he turned back to him.

Clint's gaze immediately zeroed in on the thermometer. His muscles tensed, even the ball in his hand went still. This was exactly why Phil was careful to take the kid's blood pressure _before_ his temperature.

Phil didn't bother asking about the reaction as he stood up and moved to Clint's side. He had already tried several times to ask him what it was about the seemingly simple activity that bothered him so much and Clint's response had been the same every time. _I just don't like it._ Given everything he had been through in just the last couple days, Phil was doing his best to just let it go for now.

"Just going to check your temperature real quick," Phil said, even though he knew that Clint already knew that.

Phil placed the thermometer in Clint's ear, and Clint went deathly still, as if it were a gun held to his head rather than a harmless piece of medical equipment.

"With all this practice, I'm thinking about going back for a medical degree," Phil said conversationally, mostly just as an attempt to distract the kid. "Maybe up my paygrade a bit."

Clint didn't respond, made no move to show that he had even heard him.

After just a minute, the thermometer beeped. Phil stepped back, looking down at the readout. It had remained steady from the last check. That was a good sign.

"Everything's still a little higher than they would be if you were laying down," Phil told him as he put the thermometer away and moved back around the bed to where he had been sitting before. He grabbed Clint's chart from the end of the bed on the way by so that he could make a note about his vitals. "But, it's still within a reasonable range for now."

"Super," Clint deadpanned, clearly unconcerned as he tossed the rubber ball, bouncing it off the opposite wall and catching it easily as it came back to him.

Phil had to stop himself from sighing out loud in annoyance. The kid could at least _pretend_ to be concerned about his own wellbeing.

They lapsed back into the same silence that had consumed the room before the nurse had interrupted. It would have been uncomfortable months ago, but in their time together Phil had learned that Clint's silence was a comfortable thing for him. He would wrap it around himself like a security blanket, relaxing into it. And knowing that Clint was comfortable with it helped Phil to be more comfortable with it as well.

The only noise in the room was the heart monitor beeping steadily and the rubber ball as Clint bounced it at the perfect angle to hit the ground, then ricochet off the rail of the bed before sailing easily back into his waiting hand. He did this over and over, the path of the ball always exactly the same, his hand barely having to move each time the ball came back to him. The amount of precision to have the ball hit the exact same points every time was staggering. And Clint did it without even looking, his gaze fixed on the far side of the room, seemingly not focused on anything in particular.

It was a good twenty minutes later when Clint very suddenly broke the silence, not even hesitating with running the ball through the same ricocheting pattern.

"Did you guys catch him?"

Phil didn't have to ask for clarification. He was actually vaguely surprised that this was the first time Clint had asked about the shooter. But he supposed that with Clint being in and out of consciousness over the past three days, this may have been the first time that he had been awake long enough to really make it to that thought.

"Not yet," Phil said evenly. "But we've got all our techs working on tracking him down. He won't be able to hide forever."

Clint appeared to have no reaction to this information. Phil waited a minute before going on carefully.

"I've actually been meaning to talk to you about that."

Clint didn't miss a beat with the ball, but he did shift his gaze vaguely in Phil's direction. Phil figured that was as close to permission to speak his mind as he was going to get. He took a breath as he leaned forward in his chair.

"I was wondering if you could give me your take on what happened."

That caused Clint to pause, his eyes shifting to finally look right at Phil, surprise visible in his normally stony gaze. After a long moment, he began tossing the ball along the same path again.

"Why?" he finally asked, his tone guarded. "Why do you care what I think?"

Phil weighed his words carefully. He didn't want to lead the kid in any particular direction, he really wanted to know if his thoughts were the same as Phil's on what really happened.

"Just humor me," he said evenly.

Clint caught the ball and then started rolling it absentmindedly between his palm and his thigh.

"Seems pretty obvious to me," he said matter-of-factly, but he was watching Phil closely for his reaction. "Guy who tried to take me out in Chicago tried to finish the job."

"How do you figure?" Phil asked. He believed him, but he was still interested to hear his logic.

"Well, once I figured out it wasn't you guys trying to off me," Clint said, tilting his head slightly in admittance, a sheepish look flashing across his features for just a moment, "it was pretty obvious. The sniper had almost the exact same pattern in Chicago. Five shots, grouped exactly the same way, with little to no regard for causalities. The high number of casualties also probably means he's distracted by movement easily, not as focused as he really should be as a sniper. This time felt a more frantic than last time, I think that's why there were no fatalities this time and there was the addition of the poison bullets. Whoever it was probably has a contract and they're getting pressure for not completing the agreement."

With a sudden flick of his wrist, he sent the ball shooting across the room, just over Phil's right shoulder before it hit the wall and bounced straight back into Clint's waiting hand before he went on.

"It was sloppy of him to use the exact same pattern. Might as well of hung a flashing neon sign that the two were connected. But I guess he figured I was the only one who would make the connection and he felt confident that I would be dead."

Phil blinked. That was far more insight than he had been expecting. It was an analysis that was on par with what Phil would have expected from a tech who studied these kinds of situations for a living. The kid certainly knew his stuff.

"You think it's a hitman for hire?" Phil asked.

"I'd say that's a pretty safe bet," Clint said, jutting out his chin, his gaze daring Phil to argue with him.

But Phil had no desire to do any such thing.

"So, who do you think would have a contract like that out on you?" Phil asked. Because this meant they had two different parties they needed to track down.

Clint looked a little surprised by the question. Perhaps because he hadn't expected Phil to take his word so seriously.

Clint shrugged a shoulder. "Your guess is as good as mine. I like to stay off the radar. No one's supposed to know I exist."

It was a statement that was completely normal in Phil's line of work… and yet he couldn't help but feel a pang at hearing it come so matter-of-factly from this seventeen-year-old kid. This wasn't the time to dwell on that though.

"So, the question is, who _does_ know you exist?" Phil prodded.

Clint closed his eyes and leaned his head up against the wall. He looked so tired. But Phil needed more out of him, needed to be able to track down the person who had done this.

"Maybe someone from the carnival?" Phil ventured wearily, studying Clint for a reaction. When there wasn't one, he took a breath and went on. "What about Jacques Duquesne? Maybe he wanted to finish the job?"

Clint's eyes snapped open. For just the briefest of moments, Phil could just glimpse the bone-deep, devastating pain in Clint's gaze at just the mention of his former mentor's name. But it was gone as quickly as it had come as the kid quickly pulled his defenses back in place.

"Not his style." Clint's voice was tight, each word coming out carefully neutral. "Contracts like that aren't cheap. He wouldn't shell out that kind of money for something he could do himself."

"And… you're sure this wasn't him doing it himself?" Phil asked.

"Yes," Clint said flatly, not quite looking at him. "He could hit a fly at fifty yards with a knife… but he couldn't shoot a gun worth a damn. He wouldn't hit the broad side of a barn at that distance, let alone manage to come anywhere close to a moving person."

"Okay," Phil said. "We won't focus on him right now." But that didn't mean they wouldn't focus on the man in the future. He deserved to suffer for what he did to Clint when he was just fifteen. But they had more pressing matters to focus on for the moment. "We'll look into tracking down the contract on you then. If we can figure out who made the contract it could lead us to who took the contract."

Clint shifted, rolling the ball absentmindedly between his hand and his thigh again.

"And then what?" he asked suddenly.

Phil blinked. "What?"

"So, you find out who shot me and your other recruits here… then what?"

"We'll send a team to either bring him in or take him out," Phil said.

Clint paused, looking thoughtful for a moment.

"I want to be on the team," he finally said firmly, meeting Phil's gaze steadily.

"You… what?" Phil stuttered, honestly having a hard time even comprehending what the kid was getting at.

"I want to be there when you track the guy down," Clint said. "I want to be the one to confront him."

"Barton, you can't walk across this room right now, let alone go track down a contract assassin," Phil pointed out.

Clint turned his head toward the door and it took Phil a moment to realize that he was calculating the distance across the room. He could almost see the wheels turning in the kid's head as he was debating getting up and crossing the damn room just to prove Phil wrong.

"Don't you dare," Phil said, leaning forward in his chair, ready to jump to his feet if Clint showed any sign of trying to get up. Clint glared at him, but thankfully stayed put. "If you think we can't handle this, might I remind you that this is pretty much what SHIELD does on a regular basis?"

"It's not that," Clint said, somewhat stubbornly.

"Then what is it?" Phil asked.

"This guy has tried to kill me twice now," Clint said darkly. "It would be one thing if he just missed me and then came back and got his shot. But three innocent people are _dead_. Three more people got injured. All because this asshole tried to take a shot that he couldn't make. It's personal at this point, Coulson. I need to be the one to take this guy down."

Phil paused, mulling over that logic carefully for a minute. "So, this is personal… _not_ because he tried to kill you, but because he _missed_?" he suddenly demanded.

He should be more surprised… he really should. But maybe he was finally starting to understand just how damaged this kid's psyche really was.

"Because he missed and hit people who had nothing to do with this," Clint stated.

"But if he had just hit _you_ , it wouldn't be personal?" Phil pressed. Clint just blinked at him, as if unsure why Phil was stuck on this idea. Phil sighed as he went on. "You realize that self-preservation is a perfectly acceptable reason to make this personal. And that you're allowed to be pissed at a guy for trying to, you know, _kill you_."

"If I say that's the reason this is personal, then can I be the one to take the asshat down?" Clint asked.

"Clint, you're not going to be at 100% for several weeks, at least," Phil tried to explain to him. "And it won't take us nearly that long to track this guy down."

"How long did it take you to track me down?" Clint asked, a hint of accusation in his tone.

Phil sighed. "That was different," he said.

But he didn't get the chance to stumble through some half thought out logic as to why exactly this was different.

"I am here voluntarily, right?" Clint suddenly snapped.

"Yes," Phil said slowly, already not liking where this was going.

"You said that I can leave any time that I want?" Clint continued, his gaze sharp.

"I did," Phil allowed, now absolutely positive that he didn't like where this was going.

"Then I'm giving you a choice," he said lowly, meeting Phil's gaze, his features deadly serious. "Either I'm coming with you to track this son of a bitch down, or I'm out. Turn me over to state custody and I'll take it from there and hunt the guy down myself."

Phil was quiet as he met Clint's gaze, but the kid did not waver in his conviction in for a moment. Phil had no doubt that if he told him they had a lead on the guy – which of course, they did not – he'd be up and out of this room in an instant, his own still healing injuries be damned.

Well. It seemed he was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

"As of this moment, it's a nonissue," Phil finally said with a dismissive wave of his hand, hoping to deescalate the situation. "We have no leads and the techs are the ones who will be doing the heavy lifting until we are given some sort of direction. So, for the time being, how about we just focus on getting you healed up?"

"And what about when you do get a lead?" Clint pressed, jutting his chin out slightly in defiance.

Phil sighed. "Then, we will have this conversation again based on how far along you are in the healing process." He met Clint's eyes, his own showing plainly his steely resolve on this subject. "But, if we get a lead tomorrow, I cannot in good conscious even attempt to give you clearance to go after this guy. It would be a suicide mission. And I believe your life is worth more than that."

Clint opened his mouth to say something and then closed it. Phil could almost see him changing his train of thought before he spoke again.

"And if I'm healed by the time you get your lead?" he asked.

"Then we will have this conversation again," he allowed. Clint opened his mouth, assumedly to press his argument, but Phil held up a hand to stop him. "It's all I can comfortably promise you at the moment. Take it as a win for now, okay kid?"

Clint snapped his mouth shut again and then, after thinking it over for a moment, he gave a slight nod as he leaned his head up against the wall. The movement of the ball between his palm and thigh had slowed, but never paused.

The fight was visibly draining out of him, and as it left him it was painfully apparent how exhausted the kid really was. But Phil didn't dare suggest that he climb back into bed. He was learning that Clint really needed to do things in his own time and feel as if he had some sort of control over the situation. Phil suspected that it was why he often refused things that were offered to him, such as someone suggesting that he sit down. So, as long as he wasn't injuring himself farther, Phil was trying to let him have any control he felt like he could scrape together in this situation.

It was the least he could do for him, considering that Phil felt that he could have prevented this whole thing if he had just paid more attention while he was investigating the incident in Chicago months ago.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence again, Clint clearly deep in thought. As much as Phil wanted to know what was going on in his head, he left him to his thoughts.

Phil noticed the ball slowing down before he noticed the way that Clint's eyelids were sagging heavily.

"I think I need to lay down for a little bit," Clint finally admitted.

Phil smiled, proud that he hadn't had to prompt the kid into admitting that he had reached his limit. Small victories.

"Okay," Phil said as he stood up. "Let me help you."

They had already established that Clint was allowed to get out of bed, but only if he accepted help with getting up and also laying back down so that he wouldn't aggravate his still healing bullet wound too much. So, thankfully Clint simply shifted his feet off of the bed and waited as Phil came around beside him. He silently handed the ball over to Phil so that he could place it on a nearby table.

"Nice and easy, just like last time," Phil reminded him as he carefully put one hand on Clint's closest forearm and snaked the other around his back. The kid tensed at the contact, but didn't flinch away, which Phil took as progress. "Let me do the lifting. On three, okay? One… two… three."

As Phil lifted him, Clint let out a low hiss, the only indication of discomfort. Phil was careful to shift him in a way that would least disturb the IVs and wires to the heart monitor that he was still hooked up to. Then he was lowering him back onto the edge of the bed. He paused, letting Clint catch the breath that he had been holding against the pain, but made no comment. He waited for Clint to look at him and nod before he helped him lay back against the pillows, unable to hide the grimace as the motion of laying back pulled at his wound. But as he was able to relax, the tension melted away.

"Might be a good idea to try and get some rest," Phil commented as he arranged the IV tubes and wires to make sure none of them had been disturbed. He was careful not to phrase it as a command or even a strong suggestion, but rather more like a passing thought. The kid needed to make the decision on his own.

He pulled up the blankets only enough so that Clint could grab them and arrange them as he wanted before heading back to his seat and making himself comfortable. The comment had Clint stubbornly blinking against the exhaustion for another couple minutes. But finally, the pull of sleep became too much for him as he drifted off.

There was a vague sense of relief at seeing the kid getting some much-needed rest. But it was overshadowed by all the new information that he had spinning in his head. He knew that he needed to get Bradbury going on this new idea that there was a contract out on Clint, something that will probably be easier to track down than the elusive shooter… but for the moment Phil felt like just getting up out of that seat was near impossible.

The kid had laid down an ultimatum. One that very well might shatter everything they had been working so hard to build these last couple months.

He looked at the broken kid in front of him. He was healing better than anyone had dared hope, Jac had told him as much. But if they got a lead on their shooter tomorrow, would he really follow through with his threat to leave? Because there was no way that Phil could in good conscious let him anywhere near a dangerous assassin in his current state. Not to mention, there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that Fury would allow it. He would see Clint in his current state as nothing more than a liability.

Why couldn't this kid just have a normal sense of self-preservation? Why couldn't he just be concerned about his own safety for once?

* * *

"He's still out."

Phil stopped in his tracks, his gaze shifting from the closed door of Clint's recovery room where he had been heading, to Jac standing off to one side, leaning against a nearby counter as she made notes on a clipboard. After he had been sure Clint was out for the count, Phil had finally willed himself to leave the room, if only to bring his new information to Bradbury and make sure the investigation was moving in the right direction.

"Did he wake at all while I was gone?" Phil asked, making his way over to Jac.

Jac shot a brief glance at the recovery room door before focusing back on the chart in her hands.

"I woke him about forty-five minutes ago to check his vitals," she told him. "But he was only semiconscious and was out again as soon as I was done." She waved a hand vaguely at the counter behind her. "Coffee. You get one more jolt before I cut you off and make you go get some rest."

Phil cocked a surprised eyebrow at being ordered around but didn't argue as he made his way over to the coffee maker on the counter next to her.

"How did his vitals look?" he asked.

"Holding steady from when you took them an hour before," Jac reported distractedly. She finished making notes and tossed the clipboard onto the counter, finally turning her full attention to Phil as he poured himself a generous cup of coffee. "Overall, he's doing better than I expected him to. There's no doubt at this point that with time he's going to make a full recovery."

Phil nodded as he took a sip, wincing slightly as the liquid burned his mouth a bit. He wasn't surprised by the information; all signs had been pointing to that conclusion this far.

"When do you think he'll be able to be up and around?" Phil asked cautiously.

"I'd like to keep him on the IV and bedrest for at least another couple days," she said. "But I could stretch that if he wanted to stay out of the detention wing a while longer. I would imagine it's at least marginally more comfortable up here than it is down there."

Phil nodded, knowing that the kid would appreciate that if for no other reason than there was a window in his recovery room, something Phil had made sure of. But that wasn't what he had been thinking about when he posed the question.

"How long until he'll be able to return to normal activities?" he asked.

Jac blinked, seemingly surprised by the question.

"If you're that anxious to get him back to training, then _maybe_ we can talk about some light activity in two or three weeks," she said slowly.

"No, that's not it," Phil said with a heavy sigh.

"Then why don't you just say what it is, rather than skirting around it," Jac said.

Phil glanced back toward the door. "Barton is demanding to be part of the team that brings in the shooter."

Jac blinked, staring at him for a long moment.

"And you told him no, right?" she finally said.

"I tried to," Phil said. "But now he's saying that if we don't make him part of the team, that he won't continue staying here at the base."

"Can he do that?" Jac asked.

"He's here voluntarily," Phil said tiredly. "I made it clear that was part of the deal. So, he's allowed to decide that he doesn't want to be here anymore."

"But you can't just turn him lose, he's still a minor," Jac said, a note of disbelief in her voice.

"No, he knows that legally we'd have to turn him over to state custody for placement," Phil said. "But he's pretty confident in his ability to run away from any placement they'd put him in so that he could track down the shooter himself."

And Phil knew better than to expect any facility that CPS would place him in would hold him, short of a prison.

"He's not going to be in any shape for anything like that for weeks," Jac insisted.

"Try explaining that to him," Phil challenged with an impatient wave toward the room that Clint was in. "He doesn't give a damn."

Understanding crested in Jac's eyes as she finally grasped the situation.

"So… what are you going to do?" she finally asked carefully.

Phil huffed a weary sigh as he scrubbed his free hand over his face. "I… I don't know," he admitted, shaking his head in defeat. "I can't in good conscious let him go on this kind of mission while he's still recovering from almost dying. But at the same time, he's not giving me much of a choice."

Jac tilted her head a little at that. "But… he _is_ giving you a choice," she pointed out.

Phil looked at her in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"He's presented you with two options," she said with an annoying about of patience. "He then challenged you to pick one of those options. That is the very definition of a choice, Phil."

"Well, he's giving me two shitty choices then," he snapped.

"I won't argue with you there," Jac said, holding up a hand defensively. "But you have to ask yourself, if he's really only going to give you these two options, which is the least shitty option here?"

"What would you have me do?" Phil demanded. "Just throw him back to CPS and walk away?"

"Maybe," Jac said evenly, meeting his shocked gaze with her calm one. "If that's the choice that has the least chance of him ending up hurt or worse."

"Him out there on his own is just as dangerous," Phil pointed out.

"Yes, but he will have to start from scratch tracking down the shooter," Jac pointed out. "At least this way, you would have a good chance of finding the guy first, before Barton has the chance to put himself back in the guy's crosshairs."

Phil had to put down the cup of coffee and brace himself with a hand on the counter. This was not how he thought this conversation was going to go.

"Is that what you think I should do?" he asked, his voice suddenly thin.

Jac's eyes softened. "Not necessarily," she admitted gently. "I just want you to remember that it's about what's best for _him_ … not necessarily what's best for _you_. I know that he's not the only one getting attached here, Phil."

Phil swallowed thickly as it suddenly hit him hard just how right Jac was.

A nurse walked up just then, focusing on Jac.

"Dr. Hendricks, someone might want to check on bed four," she told her, holding out a tablet. "His heart rate has been spiking strangely the last couple minutes. I'm not sure what that means."

Jac looked confused as she took the tablet to study the vitals that were streamed through it. Then she looked up at Phil, who was only half paying attention to the conversation.

"That's Barton," she told him.

He looked at her, meeting her eyes for just a moment before he was suddenly moving.

As he pushed into Clint's recovery room, he was honestly expecting a more dramatic scene. He belatedly realized as he studied Clint's still form, that had it been something to panic about the nurse wouldn't have been calmly discussing it with Jac. But even with that realization, he carefully searched for any kind of change in Clint's condition as he walked further into the room.

It was subtle at first. His head shifted from one side to the other. Then, a second later, it shifted back, his brow furrowing in distress. Phil's eyes were drawn up to the heart monitor as the beeping noise hiccupped. So, he wasn't looking at Clint when it happened.

There was a sharp gasp and then a flurry of movement and suddenly everything was moving in fast forward. Clint shot up into a sitting position – something that shouldn't have been physically possible in his current condition, at least not without excruciating pain – wheezing in a desperate breath, his eyes suddenly wide.

"Clint!" Phil practically yelped as he rushed to the kid's side out of pure instinct.

That was the wrong thing to do.

Clint let out a shout as his arm swung out defensively against him as he lunged away from him on the bed. He would have flung himself right off the bed if Jac hadn't been coming up on the other side of him, acting quickly as she snapped up the bedrail on that side. She was shouting something back toward the door of the room, but Phil was too focused on what was going on in front of him to really comprehend what she said.

"Clint, listen to me," Phil demanded, but Clint's panic only rose, his breathing practically hyperventilating.

Phil made a quick decision. He reached over and grabbed Clint's legs, swinging them around so that they were hanging off the bed and Clint was in more of a sitting position. When the wires of the heart monitor got in the way, he tore them off with a quick swipe of his hand, the frantic beeping noise cutting down to a low drone of a flatline.

The sudden change of position was enough to shock Clint into stop struggling, but his eyes still weren't focused on anything, his body rocking back and forth slightly as his hands were shaking. Phil carefully hovered a hand on either side of him, near his shoulders, not touching him but ready to grab him if he tried to move.

Then, he realized that among the wheezing, Clint was mumbling something under his breath. He had to lean in closer to be able to really make it out.

"I'm sorry, I'm… sorry, I didn't… mean to, I… I didn't know, I'm sorry…"

"Clint, hey, look at me," Phil said, ducking down and desperately trying to catch the kid's eye. "Kid, you gotta look at me." Clint's eyes flicked at him for just a moment. But it was enough for Phil to know that he was getting through. "Just take it easy. Everything's okay. You're in the infirmary, remember?"

Clint took in a shuddering breath as his eyes finally focused on Phil. A spark of recognition shadowed by growing confusion shined brightly in his panicked gaze, but it was a small improvement that he seemed to realize that Phil was there.

He shot a glance over at Jac as a nurse was hurrying over to her, handing her two syringes. She slipped one into the front pocket of her lab coat and held the other as she watched the scene in front of her with a sharp gaze. An educated guess told Phil that the syringe in her hand probably held a sedative. He met her eyes and gave her a small shake of his head, trying to indicate that she should hold off on drugging him. He believed Clint could work through this without them having to put him under. Jac nodded slightly back but didn't drop the syringe. He had no doubts that if Clint couldn't calm himself, Jac would do what had to be done.

"Easy, Clint," Phil coached, straining to keep his voice calm. "Just take it easy. Get it under control, okay? Deep breaths into your stomach, take it one breath at a time. You can do this."

Clint took one steady breath. Then another. His eyes wandered for a moment before snapping back to Phil. He shifted his hands, and for just a second Phil thought he was reaching for him, but then he seemed to change his mind, clasping his hands in his lap. The movement did bring attention to a thin line of red running down his arm though. It was then that Phil realized at some point in the chaos Clint had apparently ripped out his IV.

"That's it, that's good," Phil encouraged evenly. "Just like that, nice and easy. You're okay."

Finally, the fog from Clint's gaze cleared. He blinked as he looked around, seeming to really comprehend his surroundings for the first time. He was quiet, his gaze darting to Jac as she carefully came around the bed, moving around them to reach the heart monitor in order to turn it off, cutting off the drone of the flatline and leaving a ringing silence in its absence. She was mindful to keep a generous distance as she moved.

Clint's eyes slowly slid back to focus on Phil. He swallowed thickly before he spoke, his voice heavy as it dragged out of his throat.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize," Phil told him firmly. "It wasn't you're fault."

"Has that happened to you before, Barton?" Jac spoke up, still standing a careful step behind Phil. "Waking up in a panic like that and not remembering where you were?"

Clint blinked at her, and the conflict in his features plainly answered the question. Jac seemed to decide to spare him from actually having to answer as she stepped up and dropped the syringe in her hand in one pocket while pulling the other one from her other pocket.

"This is a strong painkiller," she told him, holding the syringe in plain view so that Clint could see it. "As your adrenaline drops, you're going to start to feel the pain in your side. I'd like to give you this before you can feel it in order to stay ahead of it. Then we can get you cleaned up and put everything back. Is that okay?"

Clint studied the syringe a bit skeptically.

"Is it gonna put me to sleep?" he asked quietly.

"No, it's not a sedative," Jac assured him. "It might make you feel a little… foggy, but it's not going to put you to sleep."

Clint thought that over for an agonizing amount of time. He glanced down at his bandaged wound, wincing slightly as he was probably starting to feel the pain that moving around so rapidly had caused.

"Okay," he finally consented, his features tightening.

Jac didn't wait for any more permission than that. She stepped up next to him an inserted the syringe into his shoulder in one swift motion, pressing the plunger. Clint barely seemed to notice.

"There, that should make you feel better," Jac said briskly as she placed the used syringe on a side table. "Now, let's get you situated again."

Jac and Phil worked together to get Clint resituated in the hospital bed. Thankfully the wound done by tearing out the IV was a small one that only needed a bandage. Jac checked the bullet wound and while it appeared strained and angry, by some miracle he hadn't torn any of the stitches. Still, Jac decided she wanted to do an MRI just to be sure no internal damage had been done.

After they had gotten Clint settled, Phil followed Jac to the door of the room.

"That's happened before," Phil told her lowly. "A few weeks ago, when he called me in the middle of the night to get him out of his cell. It was the same kind of thing, like a panic attack."

Jac nodded. "So, it probably wasn't caused by happened just a few days ago," she said grimly. "Probably a sign of something much bigger than that. Maybe even PTSD from his abuse as a kid."

"Shit," Phil hissed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"We're going to have to keep a close eye on his heart monitor when he sleeps," she went on in an undertone. "If this keeps happening, we might have to reintroduce a sedative."

"He's not going to like that," Phil told her.

"It's better than having him wake up like that again and causing serious damage," Jac countered firmly. "I have no idea how he managed to not tear anything this time around. I don't think he'll be that lucky twice."

Phil nodded. "You're right," he admitted with a small sigh.

"I'm going to see about the MRI, we should be able to get him in within the next half hour given the circumstances," Jac said. "I'll be right back."

After she left, Phil hesitated in the doorway a few moments longer, just taking the time to breath. There was rarely a dull moment with this kid. He stayed like that until finally a voice floated from across the room.

"Are you gonna stay?" Clint asked, looking over at him with a bleary expression. And suddenly he sounded every bit like the kid that he was.

Phil gave him a small but hopefully comforting smile as he straightened and walked back over to the bed, taking a seat and making a show of getting comfortable.

"Yeah, kid. I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thoughts? We're starting to fill in some blanks with Clint's quirky behavior, but some BIG answers are coming in the next couple chapters! So, I hope you're ready for some more action, because it's coming! Please leave a review and let me know what you think!

* * *

 _ **Chapter Sixteen Sneak Peek**_

"Just let me get him involved," Phil said. "Just enough that he feels useful. If he feels like we're utilizing him, maybe he won't take it as hard when we don't bring him for the actual take down."

"And why exactly are we bending over backwards to protect this kid's _feelings_?" Fury demanded.

"He's an asset," Phil said firmly. "You know it as well as I do at this point. We give him this and it will pay off in the long run, I promise." When Fury was still hesitating, Phil went on. "With all due respect, sir, it's a milk run. We'll be there and back before you even notice we're gone."


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:** Alright, here we go! I'm a little late on this chapter from what I told those who reviewed, I ended up reformatting a bit and cutting the last scene and moving it to the next chapter because the word count was getting out of control! But, the good news is that with that scene done plus another another scene coming up that I've had written for AGES it should help me to get the next chapter out in a timely manner!

Reviewers are my favorite! Thank you to BlooAngels; TheRedScreech; XYZArtemis; Nyla the lioness; Ashwinder888; ELOSHAZZY for taking the time to review and let me know your thoughts I very much appreciate it! And the Super Star Award goes to musicalishmonster who not only got to see Jeremy Renner in person a few weekends but PRINTED AND GAVE HIM A COPY OF THIS STORY SO FAR! I'm still geeking out about that love, thank you so much for doing that!

Okay, I'm a little nervous about this chapter and anxious to hear what you guys think about it. So, without further ado… we continue!

* * *

 **Chapter Sixteen**

Clint had two more nightmares in the coming nights despite Jac upping his painkillers in an attempt to give him a dreamless sleep without resorting to a strong sedative. Even though they were more prepared to deal with Clint waking in a panic, Jac was still uncomfortable with the situation. It wasn't until Phil started bringing his work into the infirmary and turning Clint's recovery room into his makeshift office that they finally realized the solution to the problem. Phil had originally made the decision so that he could carefully monitor the investigation while also being nearby in case Clint woke in a panic and needed help calming down, but the difference it made in the situation was undeniable.

Clint didn't have a nightmare when Phil was in the room with him when he fell asleep.

Not that Clint was inclined to admit it – maybe even to himself – but something about Phil's presence seemed to comfort him. It wasn't necessarily a magic fix, there were still times where Clint would jerk awake suddenly, but it wasn't nearly on the level as it had been before. And Phil didn't miss the way that the kid's eyes would dart around the room before resting on him, relaxing only as he realized that Phil was still in the room. With this realization, Phil started spending as much time as he could in the room. If he could provide some kind of comfort, he wasn't about to deny that to this kid.

Working through this issue had put Clint behind in his overall recovery. It was a solid week after surgery before Jac finally took Clint off the heart monitor and IVs. At that point, any other patient would have been released to light activity, but Jac managed to pull some strings in order to keep him for "observation" in order to spare him from being banished back down to the detention wing.

Starting when he was taken off the IV, Phil was allowed to take Clint out for short walks around the base to keep him from going stir crazy. He started off slow and wore out easily, but as time went on he was quickly able to build up his endurance. Two weeks after surgery he was almost back to full strength, though still restricted to light activity.

And it was two weeks after his surgery that they got their first break in the investigation into who fired on their base.

The news was enough for Phil to leave Clint's bedside, wanting to get the update from tech in person. It was a relief to finally have a lead in the case and action to be taken, but Phil also couldn't help but feel uneasy. Although it was unusual that it had taken them this long to finally get a lead, he had actually been hoping for more time. Clint was at an in between point in his recovery. He was no longer bedridden but also not up to strenuous activities.

If he was still going to demand to be included on the mission, Phil was going to have a hard time coming up with a viable reason to deter him.

"We got a lead," Phil announced without preamble as he walked back into Clint's recovery room.

Clint looked up. He was sitting in a chair with his feet propped up on the bed, bouncing the rubber ball that he was never without from the floor into his hand absentmindedly. His other hand held a book pinned in his lap, one he had been reading before Phil had interrupted. And Phil couldn't help but smile slightly at the sight. When he had taken this seventeen-year-old kid in, he had barely read at a sixth-grade level. And now, only four months later, he was flying through books like _Catcher in the Rye_.

"You finally found the shooter?" Clint asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Not exactly," Phil admitted reluctantly as he tossed the folder in his hand down on the bed next to Clint's feet.

Clint dropped his feet down and leaned forward so that he could place the book face down on the bed to hold his page – Phil noticed that even though he only gave him the book yesterday, he was almost finished with it – before he grabbed the folder and flipped it open, quickly scanning the contents.

"We got a lead on the poisoned bullets," Phil told him as he crossed his arms over his chest. "We tracked down a contact that pointed us to a weapons dealer named Murphy Davis. He has been known to supply unorthodox weapons and supplies without asking too many questions of his clients. He also has an uncle who works as a herpetologist and could have had access to the venom that we found utilized in this poison."

"Herpetologist?" Clint asked, looking up at him a cocking an eyebrow.

"Person who studies reptiles and amphibians," Phil explained. "Part of the compound found inside the bullets was good old-fashioned snake venom."

Clint nodded as he looked back down at the file. He was quiet for a long minute as he read.

"I know him," he said after a pause, mild surprise in his tone.

"What?" Phil asked, taken aback for a moment.

"Sure, Murph, I've dealt with him before," Clint said matter-of-factly as he snapped the file closed and tossed it back down on the bed. He leaned back in his chair. "He's got a place in Jersey he deals out of."

Phil nodded slowly. "That's right," he confirmed. His brain was still struggling to catch up with this sudden turn of events. He hadn't expected this. "So… how exactly do you know him?"

"Believe it or not, most sporting goods stores weren't too keen on someone like me rolling in and buying up all their arrows," Clint said offhandedly with a shrug. "Their quality was shit anyway. While I was traveling, I managed to track down a few dealers who could get me better material that I could work with so that I could make my own." He leveled Phil with a steady gaze. "So. When are we paying good old Murph a visit?"

There was a note of accusation in the look he gave him, as if daring him to try and deny him this.

"This information came to me directly from the tech, but they likely sent it to Fury first," Phil hedged. "He'll be the one to decide who will follow up on this lead." He was skirting around the issue. And based on the impatient look that Clint was giving him, the kid knew it. "I was on my way to talk to him, but I wanted to talk to you first." When Clint didn't say anything, but merely arched an eyebrow at him, he went on. "I wanted to be certain… are you _sure_ this is what you want? Are you sure that you won't just let us handle this?"

"Yes," Clint said shortly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Phil couldn't say he was surprised. But still, he had to try.

"I'll do what I can," Phil said. "But I can't guarantee that I'll be able to get Fury to agree to this. It's going to be a hard sell considering you're not a SHIELD agent – or even technically a recruit – and are still recovering from a serious injury."

Clint's expression remained passive.

"Then I'll trust you to bring you're A-game when you make the case," he said as he leaned back and propped one foot up on the bed in front of him.

Phil couldn't help but roll his eyes at that. But he had to admit that this was the lesser of two evils, considering they were merely going after the dealer rather than the shooter. He reached forward and scooped up the file.

"I'll be back in a little bit," he said as he stood up out of his chair and headed for the door.

"I'll be here," Clint deadpanned.

Unsurprisingly, Jac was waiting for him as he stepped out of the recovery room, closing the door firmly behind him.

"Well?" she asked. He had already prepped her on the situation before he had gone to talk to tech.

"He's sticking to it," Phil told her tiredly, not breaking stride. "He wants to be involved in the investigation."

Jac fell into step next to him. "And you're going to let him?"

"You said that it's safe for him to be up and about," Phil pointed out.

"Yeah, I meant like walking around the base, maybe going for a light jog," Jac snapped. "Not tracking down an assassin who's already tried to kill him twice."

"We're not tracking down an assassin," Phil corrected. "We're just going to have a conversation with a weapons dealer who might know the assassin. Two very different things." Jac simply glared at him and Phil sighed, knowing that it was paper thin logic. "It's a good compromise," he went on, trying to convince himself as much as the doctor. "It gets Barton involved while keeping him out of the fire. Hopefully that'll be enough for him."

"And if it's not?" Jac pressed.

"We'll deal with that when the times comes," Phil hedged as they reached the door out of the infirmary.

"I don't find that comforting," Jac said. "Phil, if he gets into a physical altercation it's not going to end well for him in his current state."

"Which is why I'm doing my damnedest to keep him out of the real fight," Phil said with a sigh. He paused at the door as he looked over at Jac. "I'm on your side, Jac. I'm just trying to find a balance between us putting a target on his back by sending him after the shooter and him putting a target on his own back by leaving here and going after the shooter himself."

He turned to leave, but a hand on his sleeve caused him to pause, glancing back at Jac.

"I get that you're just trying to make everyone happy here, Phil," she told him. "But I just want you to think through this very carefully. If I went through all that trouble to keep that kid alive only for you to take him on some halfcocked mission just to feed his ego that gets him killed, I'm coming after _you_."

And then she turned and was lost into the crowd of the infirmary.

For a moment, Phil could only stand there. He knew that Jac had grown to care for Clint in the time he had spent here, but it wasn't until that moment that he realized how just much she cared. And he had no doubt that if this went south she would make good on her promise to make Phil pay for this decision.

No pressure.

Phil took a deep, steadying breath before he finally turned and pushed out through the doors of the infirmary into the rest of the base. He honestly wasn't sure what he was hoping the outcome would be, but he had told Clint that he would present the idea to Fury, so that's what he was going to do.

He had to take this one step at a time.

He arrived at Fury's office far too soon for his liking, but there was no point putting this off any longer than necessary. He knocked solidly on the door and waited to be invited in.

"Coulson," Fury said with a vague amount of surprise from behind his desk as he watched Phil approach.

"Director Fury," Phil returned respectfully with a nod. "I assume you got the report from tech about Murphy Davis."

"I did," Fury confirmed calmly. "Seems likely that the unique ammunition came from him. I'm going to send in a team to follow up on the lead, see if they can get him to divulge who he may have sold those poisoned bullets to recently."

Phil nodded, unsurprised. It was the logical next step.

"Have you assigned a team for the task yet?" Phil asked.

"I was just working on that," Fury admitted, gesturing vaguely at his computer. His tone was guarded, clearly unsure why Phil was inquiring and weary about his true intentions. "Why? You have a suggestion?"

"I would like to volunteer to go investigate Davis myself," Phil said.

Fury cocked a startled eyebrow at him. "I must say I'm surprised to see you finally willing to leave Barton bedside," he said. " _Relieved_ , but surprised."

"I'd like to take Barton with me." The words were out of his mouth before he had time to second-guess himself.

Fury openly stared at him as if he had suddenly grown a second head.

"Come again?" he finally said skeptically.

"I'd like Barton to accompany me to interrogate this weapons dealer," he repeated calmly.

"You've got to be shitting me, Phil," Fury said. "Even if he wasn't just some kid we picked up off the streets with no official SHIELD approved training… last I checked Barton was still contained to his hospital bed."

"Dr. Hendricks has kept him in the infirmary mostly for his own sanity at this point," Phil explained. "Any other patient she would have released back to their bunk for rest, but since Barton is still being confined to the detention wing she elected to keep him under observation longer than strictly necessary. At this point in his recovery he's getting around just fine and hasn't been on any IVs or medical monitoring in almost a week now."

"And what does Dr. Hendricks have to say about you taking him out on a mission?" Fury said, pinning him with a piercing gaze.

"She's not thrilled with the idea," Phil admitted slowly. "But she did say that as long as he doesn't get into any physical altercations she doesn't foresee any major complications in his current condition."

It was enough of the truth anyway.

"You know that we can't guarantee there won't be an altercation," Fury pointed out. "Even the most basic mission comes with inherent risks."

"I know that," Phil said. "But… Barton needs this. He needs to help us bring this guy in for his own piece of mind. And this is likely to be the least dangerous part of the mission to get him involved with. Not to mention, Barton's actually worked with this guy before. Davis has helped him with procuring materials to make his arrows and upkeep his stock. Barton could actually turn out to be a valuable contact on this mission."

But Fury looked far from convinced.

"He's too much of a wild card right now," he said, shaking his head. "He has no training and if something goes south I can't guarantee his safety. And how are we supposed to explain it if a minor that has officially been detained in our detention wing for the last four months suddenly turns up dead?"

"Barton will be with me the entire time," Phil pointed out. "I'll make damn sure that doesn't happen."

Fury sighed heavily. "Why are you fighting so hard for this? Why is it so important? I would have thought you of all people would want to wrap Barton in bubble wrap after what happened, not potentially put him right back in this sniper's crosshairs."

"In a perfect world, I'd do just that," Phil admitted. "But it's not what this kid needs. He feels responsible and it's eating him up inside. He feels responsible for those people who died in Chicago and he feels responsible for those who got hurt here on the base. He needs to have a hand in making this right in order to ease his conscience."

Fury leaned to one side and rubbed his one good eye tiredly. It had been a very long two weeks.

"Why is it this kid's already a thorn in my side and he isn't even one of my agents yet?" He spoke mostly to himself, almost as if he forgot Phil was still there.

"Just let me get him involved," Phil implored. "Just enough that he feels useful. If he feels like we're utilizing him, maybe he won't take it as hard when we don't bring him for the actual take down."

"And why exactly are we so inclined to bend over backwards to protect this kid's _feelings_?" Fury demanded as he shifted, looking up at Phil.

"He's an asset," Phil said firmly. "You know it as well as I do at this point. We give him this and it will pay off in the long run, I promise." When Fury still hesitated, Phil went on. "With all due respect, sir, it's a milk run. We'll be there and back before you even notice we're gone."

"Milk run," Fury echoed with a dark smirk as he leaned back in his chair. "Those are famous last words, Phil. You should know better than that."

Phil chuckled. "True," he admitted. "I take it back. But even so, Barton is extremely capable, sir. And we're not relying solely on him for anything, I will be there every step of the way. I will take personal responsibility for this part of the mission and you have my word that having Barton along won't be a hinderance. He actually might give us an edge considering he's worked with this guy in the past."

Fury studied him for a long moment.

"Fine," he finally allowed. "But, anything happens to that kid while he's in the field, it's all on you, Phil."

"Understood, sir," Phil agreed, somehow feeling both relieved and apprehensive. And maybe kist a little bit guilty.

Fury echoing Jac's sentiments from earlier was enough to throw him off balance. And he couldn't help but think… was he really doing the right thing?

"You know," Fury said slowly, eyeing Phil as if he could see right through him, "if you want to play this off like you presented his case and I denied it, I would go along with it. I can play the bad guy if you want."

Fury was too preceptive sometimes. And it was a damn temping offer.

But in the end, he shook his head. "He'll never go for it, he's too thickheaded. It doesn't matter who it comes from, he'll never accept being left out of this, it's too personal for him. And denying him this will only give him more leverage when we actually go after the shooter."

"I'll get the paperwork going," Fury said briskly, not one to dwell on things that had already been decided. "Expect to fly out sometime tomorrow afternoon. And Phil? I hope you're right about this."

Phil turned on his heels and headed for the door. "Yeah," he said quietly to himself. "Me too."

* * *

It was midway through the following afternoon and Clint was borderline chatty as he lounged in the copilot's seat of the Quinjet while Phil began the preflight checks. His spirits were definitely lifted upon finding out that Phil had managed to get approval to include him on this mission. He fired question after question about every step of the preflight process and Phil calmly answered each of his questions as he worked, not missing the way that Clint watched his every move like a hawk.

 _The Amazing Hawkeye!_

Frank Carson's words echoed in his head and Phil couldn't help but smile a little as be powered up the Quinjet. It was a damn appropriate stage name for this kid.

But then, very suddenly, Clint clammed up as they were taxiing out of the hanger. It wasn't just that, tension was suddenly flowing off the kid in waves, practically palpable in the enclosed space. Phil understood that the kid wasn't used to flying, but it still seemed like an odd reaction from someone who was fearless about walking along the ledge on the roof of a nine-story building. He obviously wasn't afraid of heights. So, what was it about the jet that put him on edge? Perhaps it was a control issue? Phil was dying to ask but refrained in favor of keeping them focused on the task at hand.

As the jet took off, Phil resorted to trying to talk to the kid as an attempt to put him more at ease – not to mention to attempt to ease his own trepidation about involving Clint in this mission – as well as fill the awkward silence that now filled the cockpit. He had given Clint a crash course on protocols and how to react to different scenarios that might come up on this mission the night before, but he figured it wouldn't hurt to go over them again since they had to the time.

"I know you're going to technically take the lead when we talk to this guy," Phil said, glancing at Clint briefly before focusing back on the controls in front of him. It was something Phil had grudgingly agreed to the night before, considering Clint already had a working relationship with Murphy Davis. "But I want you to play this as conservatively as you can. The last thing we want is a confrontation. If he won't give us the information we want, we'll figure something else out. The shooter is bound to slip up eventually and when he does we'll be ready for him. So, keep in mind that not everything is riding on this one meeting."

He glanced over at Clint just as he was leveling out the jet at altitude. Clint's gaze was pinned on him with a startling amount of intensity. Phil waited for a response, but none came.

"Got it?" he finally prompted, looking for some sort of confirmation that he was taking what he was saying seriously.

But Clint merely arched an eyebrow at him, a strange look crossing his face as if he were thinking hard about something. Phil suddenly felt a wave of annoyance. He was sticking his neck out for this kid, the least he could do was acknowledge what he was saying.

"Look, I know you think of this guy as almost a friend of yours," Phil went on, turning back to the control in front of him as he spoke, "but just keep in mind what kind of business he's in. He needs his customers to trust him, there's every chance that he's been playing you to keep you coming back. Manipulation is generally a job requirement when it comes to these low-level weapons dealers. And there's no guarantee that he won't turn on you when you start digging for information. So, we're gonna play this safe, right?"

When again, no response came, he glanced over to see if Clint was even paying attention to him. Clint was still staring at him intently, a look of concentration on his face as if he were trying to solve some kind of puzzle.

"Right?" Phil prompted, snapping at bit.

Clint blinked blankly at him. "What?"

Phil all but glared at Clint, feeling his frustration spike. This wasn't going to work. If Clint was going to suddenly regress this much, folding back into himself, Phil would scrub the goddamn mission before throwing him into a potentially dangerous situation. Because suddenly it wasn't the kid who had opened up to him about his anxiety with being confined inside too much and how he had spent a good chunk of his childhood with a traveling circus who was looking at him from the copilot's seat. This was the kid he had first picked up from prison, tightlipped and surly and angry at nothing in particular. And that's wasn't someone that Phil trusted on this kind of mission.

"If you're not gonna listen to me then this isn't going to work, Barton," he snapped impatiently as he turned his head back to the controls to check their course.

"I'm trying," Clint snapped back, practically growling.

That wasn't the least bit comforting and Phil suddenly felt a breath away from completely losing it with this kid.

"Then I need you to at least acknowledge what I'm saying to you. If this is going to work, I need you to focus and I can't be—"

He cut himself off as he felt a hand on his arm, drawing his attention back to the teenager in the seat next to him. He was taken aback for a moment, this being only the second time in all these months that Clint had voluntarily initiated any form of physical contact outside of the sparring mat. There was anger clear on the kid's face… but there was also something else. A quiet desperation, a pleading for understanding.

Phil blinked, confused as he turned his full attention to him. Clearly there he was missing something here.

"Clint… what's going on?"

Clint took his hand back as he took a deep breath, as if he were steeling himself for a difficult task.

"I need…" He trailed off before he tried again, more determined this time as he met Phil's gaze. "I need you to _look_ at me when you talk in here."

It took Phil a long moment to process what he was saying.

"Why?" he asked slowly.

Clint hesitated, looking away for a moment, suddenly seeming unconformable and maybe a little embarrassed.

"I just… I need to see your mouth when you talk," Clint mumbled, his voice thin as he sent an unsure glance in Phil's direction. His hands were suddenly fidgeting restlessly in his lap. "I'm relying mostly on lip reading in here. I can't really tell what you're saying when you're not looking at me." Then he seemed to force himself to look directly at Phil, expectant for a response.

This statement only caused more confusion. It wasn't exactly quiet in the jet, there was the constant whirr of the engine, but it wasn't exactly loud either. Speaking at a normal volume had never been an issue.

"Why do you need to read my lips?" Phil asked slowly, arching an eyebrow. When Clint hesitated, Phil sighed. "C'mon, kid, I need you to start talking. If something's going on, I need to know about it. I've got your back on this mission, but I need to know what's happening."

"It's not a big deal or anything," Clint said, shrugging one shoulder, though he still appeared tense. Then, suddenly the words were tumbling out of his mouth, practically tripping over each other in their haste to get out. "But I have partial deafness in both my ears."

That threw Phil for a solid minute. There was no denying that it was the logical explanation for why Clint needed to read his lips, but it also made absolutely no sense to him. He had known this kid for almost four months now and had spent almost every day of those four months with him. He would have noticed if he couldn't hear him… wouldn't he?

"Okay," Phil finally said, still trying to process. "Partial deafness. So, what does that mean exactly?"

"I can hear just fine," Clint said sharply, immediately on the defensive. He went on, reluctantly. "Usually. It's just… when there's a lot of background noise… it's harder to make out words." He waved his hand vaguely at the area around them, his gaze dropping down. "It's… loud in here."

"Okay," Phil said again as he continued to process.

Then he glanced over and saw that Clint wasn't looking at him. He carefully reached out, placing a hand on Clint's arm. Clint flinched away slightly as he looked up. There was a moment of vulnerability in his eyes before it melted away into a carefully blanked expression.

"Okay," Phil repeated patiently, meeting Clint's eyes. "It's good that I know that now."

Clint just nodded, his expression unreadable.

They lapsed into silence for a minute. Then Phil deliberately turned his head toward the kid, making sure he had his attention before he spoke again.

"Were you born with damaged hearing?" he asked carefully, unsure if it was okay to pry.

Clint was quiet for a long moment.

"No," he finally said flatly. "It was a childhood injury. I was almost completely deaf for a while when it first happened. It was only temporary though. It's gotten better over the years."

By the tone of his voice, Phil could tell that he wasn't going to get anywhere questioning it further at the moment. He also knew that the distinctly toneless way Clint had said the phrase ' _childhood injury_ ' was a giant, waving red flag that it wasn't as simple as he was trying to portray it. But they didn't have time to deal with that right now and Phil needed Clint focused.

However, suddenly he couldn't help but think back to that first jet ride all those months ago, when he had first brought Clint in. He remembered that the teen had suddenly been angry and defensive, glaring at him and seemingly unwilling to let him out of his sight for even a moment. At the time, Phil had read the behavior as that of an aggressive teenager who was obstinate and ready to go on the offensive at the slightest provocation.

That hadn't been it at all. It had been the behavior of a kid who was struggling just to hear what was being said to him. A kid who couldn't hear his tone of voice, who had likely lost a lot of what Phil had been trying to get across to him that day.

He could now see the situation in an entirely different light.

And then he wondered… how many other situations like that had there been over the last couple months? How many times had Phil not realized that Clint couldn't hear him? How many places on the base was there background noise that Phil barely noticed, but apparently was deafening to Clint? The shooting range? The cafeteria? The infirmary? All places that Clint actively avoided when crowded. Now that made perfect sense.

And what about the first time he had sparred with another recruit and had seemingly taken the fight too far? When he kept going even after Reynolds called it, causing the fight with the recruit to quickly escalate to the point where Phil and Reynolds had to jump in and physically pull the two apart. It was after that incident that he and Clint had developed their own signals for when Clint should start to end a fight… signals that Clint had insisted be strictly visual instead of verbal. A very predictable pattern with Clint's sparring had emerged after that, where Phil would give his visual cue and Clint would immediately pin the recruit so that he could _look_ at Reynolds and _see_ when he called the match.

And this was only one of countless examples that Phil could suddenly see with more clarity than ever.

All these thoughts crashed over Phil in an instant. And with those thoughts came another… why had he kept this a secret for this long?

"Alright," Phil finally said, turning to look at Clint again, making sure he had his attention before he went on. "Give me a few minutes to make sure our course is set and engage the autopilot. Then we'll go over the plan. Okay?"

Clint nodded stiffly. He didn't look comforted though. If anything, he looked more uncomfortable with the admission of this weakness.

Phil suddenly desperately wished that this was any other situation. He desperately wished they could just pause everything and talk this through. He wanted to know what was going on in this kid's head, why he looked like he had just been sucker punched… why he seemingly never planned to tell Phil any of this.

But they didn't have that luxury right now.

Phil double and then triple checked their coordinates. It wasn't a long trip, he'd be starting landing procedures in just under forty-five minutes. Then he set the autopilot and turned fully in his seat so that he was squarely looking at the teenager in the seat next to him. Clint looked up at the movement, his gaze vulnerable for just a moment before the look hardened and his chin jutted out in defiance.

Phil could suddenly read it in every tensed muscle in the kid's body and in the way he looked like he was already gearing up for an argument. He thought that Phil was going to pull him off of this mission because of his admission of a supposed weakness. And while they didn't have time to work through Clint's issues right now, Phil could at least give him an indication that this new information didn't change anything.

"What I was saying before was that I don't want you going into this underestimating Davis just because he's been cooperative with you before," Phil told him calmly. "If you try and challenge him and force the information out of him, he could very well turn on you for the sake of his business, not to mention his own well-being."

Clint paused, looking at him skeptically as if he didn't actually believe Phil was going to let the issue of his hearing go so easily. Phil simply waited patiently for him to respond.

"I get that," Clint finally said, though he sounded a little but off balanced. "But Murph may deal in a sketchy business, but he's not a bad guy. I'll be able to get him to help us out."

"That kind of confidence is dangerous in the field," Phil warned. "We hope for the best but prepare for the worst in this line of work. So, just humor me and let's go over the protocols once more."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** FINALLY! I've been dodging questions about Clint's canon deafness since the first chapter, and I'm SO RELIEVED to finally get this out there! So… thoughts? Clint is not completely deaf at this point, but he does have some fairly significant hearing loss. I WILL be exploring an almost completely deaf Clint Barton in a future story though, because I do believe it's very important to his character! Now, if anyone's interested, I'm going to ramble a bit on why I've set it up this way. If you're not interested in the logic behind it, feel free to skip down to the sneak peek!

So, to explain the logic to those who may be interested. **CAUTION! SPOILERS FOR MATT FRACTION'S HAWKEYE COMIC BOOK SERIES!** A lot of you have probably at least heard about Matt Fraction's Hawkeye comic book series, in which he deafens Clint Barton during a battle with some bad guys [though he's not the first one to do this, there's a long history of Hawkeye being a deaf superhero, and shame on the MCU for not utilizing it, but that's beside the point at the moment].

One thing that you might not have known if you haven't actually read the series was that in that rendition it is actually established that this is the second time that Clint has been deafened in his life. There is a flashback that shows that Clint was deafened as a child, which establishes why after he is deafened by the bad guys in the series, Clint and his brother already know sign language. It isn't entirely clear how long he was deaf as a child or how he gained his hearing back though. It was a subject that I attempted to research, though without a whole lot of luck. That's where I took some liberties in assuming that while Clint was growing and developing, his childhood injury that caused the deafness was able to heal itself to an extent.

So, there you go! Hopefully that all makes some kind of sense! I would love to know your thoughts if you wouldn't mind tossing a review my way!

* * *

 _ **Chapter Seventeen Sneak Peek**_

Davis cocked an eyebrow at him, looking vaguely suspicious. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Well, I didn't so much hear it as I got one dug out of my side," Clint said, lifting his shirt a little to show the fresh scar.

Davis inexplicably snorted a laugh at the sight of the wound and Phil had to struggled to quell the urge to punch this man in the face for making light of Clint's near-death experience.

"Damn, dude. Who the hell did you piss off?"


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:** And here we are! I worked super hard to get this chapter out before I leave on vacation tomorrow, and I'm very excited to share it with you because I've had the latter part of this chapter written since I first started this story! Things get pretty intense, so definite language warning for this chapter! I also finally get to switch up the POV a bit and we get a glimpse into Clint's head. If you only review one chapter in this whole story, please let it be this one, I'd love to know your thoughts on how this comes across!

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewing Chapter Sixteen, I very much appreciate all your feedback on the twist of Clint's damaged hearing! Shout outs to: **XYZArtemis** ; **Naomi-lou** ; **reinedumal** ; **IceDragoness1** ; **TheRedScreech** ; **ELOSHAZZY** ; **LisaG16** ; and **crazybigpippin**! You guys are awesome!

Also message to **BlooAngels** : I know this isn't exactly what you asked for, but I did add in a little snippet with Clint interacting with dogs for you! Hope you like it!

* * *

 **Chapter Seventeen**

Davis operated out of an apartment in a surprisingly middle-class area of town, albeit on the lower end of that particular spectrum. Davis met people by appointment only in order to keep customers from seeing each other. Clint had explained that the man often sold weapons to both sides of rival gang conflicts, so it was necessary for him to take these kinds of precautions. The man also refused any names and assigned each of his contacts with a number that they would identify themselves with when setting up a meeting. It was almost too easy for Clint to call him and make the meeting, telling Davis that he'd be bringing a friend along with him.

Phil had to admit, it was convenient to have someone who could get them in so easily.

Phil had landed the jet in a wooded area just outside of town, leaving the two to hike in. As they moved into the more populated area of the neighborhood, Phil fell into step behind Clint, shoving his hands into his pockets and playing the part of tag-along. The position also allowed him to keep careful watch of Clint's gait, making sure that he wasn't showing any signs of pain or fatigue from his recent wound. To his credit, he moved steadily and seemed for all the world like he hadn't been fighting for his life just a little over two weeks before.

As they approached the building, Phil couldn't help but eye the bow and quiver both slung casually over Clint's shoulder. He had suggested that Clint trade the weapons for something a little more discreet, considering they would be walking around in broad daylight. Clint had flat out refused, stating that Phil would be surprised how few people looked close enough to take notice. The black bow and black quiver did blend well with Clint's black shirt, but it still put Phil a little more on edge.

Just before they reached the door though, Clint suddenly veered away and over toward a nearby alley. Phil was confused but obediently followed after him as he approached a nearby dumpster. Then he gave a slight start when three scruffy looking stray dogs suddenly appeared, excitedly running up to Clint with tails wagging as if they knew him.

"Hey, guys," Clint greeted warmly with a grin as he knelt down to properly greet the dogs.

Phil watched in slight amazement as Clint gave each dog a friendly pat on the head before pulling three dog treats out of his pocket and handing them out. Phil could only stare. Where had Clint even gotten dog treats? Then Clint gave each dog another couple pets before he stood up and the dogs took off. He turned and headed back toward the door to the building, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.

"What was that?" Phil couldn't help but ask.

Clint shrugged, not breaking stride. "Just being friendly."

Phil let it drop, knowing they had bigger things to worry about at the moment. He was relieved as they finally slipped into the cover of the building.

Clint quickly and silently led the way up to the third floor, heading down the hallway until they arrived at the last apartment. He rapped solidly three times on the door before taking a step back and seeming to settle in to wait. It immediately became obvious why. For almost a solid minute, there was no sign that anyone was even home. Then there was the sound of a deadbolt being unlocked. Then another deadbolt. Then a chain shifting. Electronic pings as if from a keypad of some sort could be heard. A key was inserted, jiggled, then turned. Finally, there was a small click on the doorknob and the door eased open.

Murphy Davis apparently had a thing for home security.

"Murph," Clint said with a nod and a smile at the man standing in the half-opened door.

"Hey, man, it's been a while," Davis greeted with what for all the world seemed to be a welcoming smile. "I thought you'd forgotten about me." His eyes darted to Phil. "This your friend?"

"Yeah, he's been helping me out," Clint said.

"Sure, sure," Davis said, his tone unconcerned, but his gaze lingered on Phil longer than strictly necessary.

Phil returned the favor, looking Davis up and down. He was younger than he had expected him to be, though still obviously a fair few years older than Clint, with a mop of messy black hair making it look like he had just rolled out of bed. He didn't have the muscle that Phil would have expected from someone in this kind of profession either and seemed more like a mousey college student than a low-level arms dealer. It was a little off putting.

"Well, come on in and we'll see what we can get for ya," Davis said, motioning them inside.

He stepped back, ushering both Phil and Clint inside before shutting the door firmly behind them. The first thing that Phil noticed on a cursory glance around the area was that he didn't immediately see any weapons, but rather a collection of ratty looking furniture one would expect to find in your average twenty-something's first apartment. But then again, he probably shouldn't be surprised. Given what Phil had already learned about Davis' knack for security, it made sense that he wouldn't store his stash in any obvious places. His weapons might not even be on the premises.

Phil glanced over his shoulder as casually as he could as he listened to Davis reengaging his security, feeling uneasy being locked into the room. That was a recipe for disaster if past experience was anything to go by. But with a glance at Clint – who he knew for a fact always had an exit strategy – and seeing the kid unconcerned he forced himself to calm.

Clint, seeming to sense Phil's distress, looked at him before sending a casual glance over at a window. Then he made his way in that direction. The window was located near a wooden table that seemed like it belonged in someone's dining room with four chairs situated around it. Of course, Clint didn't take a seat in any of those chairs, but rather leaned a shoulder up against a half wall perpendicular to the one with the window, separating the small dining room from the kitchen. At a glance, Phil could see what Clint found comforting about the position. He could just glimpse a fire escape outside of the window.

Yes, Clint always had an exit strategy.

"Alright, what can I do for you two gentlemen?" Davis asked as he followed them, taking a seat in one of the chairs at the table facing them.

"Just looking for a restock," Clint said, thumbing back toward his quiver, which only held two arrows. Clint had insisted on leaving most of his arrows behind in the jet to help with their cover story.

Davis looked vaguely disappointed with that. "That's all?" Clint nodded once. "Well damn, man, you coulda just told me that over the phone."

Clint shrugged a shoulder. "I was in the area. And like you said, I hadn't been by in a while. I wanted to make sure you remembered my pretty face."

Davis snorted a laugh as Phil settled back a step, surprisingly comfortable with Clint taking the lead on this.

"Not likely to forget the guy who had the balls to wander in here on a whim looking for fucking _arrows_ of all things," Davis pointed out. "It ain't often that I get a first in here." He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. "I know we talked about some more interesting arrows last time you were around. I've got some more thoughts on that if you've got the time. I think I've figured out a safety system where we could incorporate that exploding arrow tip without risking it being detonated in your quiver."

Phil had to work to hide his surprise at that. He had no idea that Clint had apparently been looking to upgrade his arrows a bit. With a glance over at the kid, he could see that despite himself he was intrigued.

"Well, if anyone could pull that off, it would be you," Clint said. "I hear that you've been experimenting with things like poisoned bullets these days. How in the hell do you protect something like that being fired out of a gun? It's pretty impressive."

It was a good technique on Clint's part, Phil observed. He was moving the conversation in the direction that he wanted it to go by masking the intent with a compliment. Anybody with an ego would have fallen prey to the technique.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Davis' self-preservation outweighed his ego.

Davis cocked an eyebrow at him, looking vaguely suspicious. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Well, I didn't so much hear it as I got one dug out of my side," Clint said, lifting his shirt a little to show the fresh scar.

Davis inexplicably snorted a laugh at the sight of the wound and Phil had to struggled to quell the urge to punch this man in the face for making light of Clint's near-death experience.

"Damn, dude. Who the hell did you piss off?"

"Well, I was kinda hoping you might be able to shed some light on that," Clint said with a smirk as he dropped his shirt back down, clearly neither bothered nor surprised by Davis' lack of sympathy.

"Afraid I can't help you there," Davis said shortly. "So, if that's why you're really here, maybe you and your friend oughta just take off. I'd hate to have to burn this bridge we got goin' on here."

He shifted in his chair ever so slightly and his hard shifted just a little closer to the edge of the table. Phil was able to read the body language as clear as day. The guy was ready for this meeting to go south, probably had a gun holstered to the underside of the table. Phil tensed slightly. But a glance at Clint showed that the kid was just as relaxed as he had been when they had walked in.

"Maybe it is why I'm really here," Clint said with a shrug and Phil wished like hell reach out and smack the kid upside the head. This was exactly what he had wanted to avoid. "But you can't blame me for wanting to track down the guy trying to kill me."

Davis sighed a little at that, but the smile never left his face. "Dude, you know I like you well enough. You're a consistent customer, you never give me shit about prices, and you bring around some interesting projects. But you know I can't go squealing on my other customers. That would be a quick way to get killed in my line of work."

"I get that," Clint allowed easily. "I'm just trying not to get killed in _my_ line of work. You know?" He cocked an eyebrow thoughtfully. "This other customer… he give you as much business as I do? Or was he maybe just passing through?"

Though Davis' expression didn't give anything away, the longer than necessary pause was very telling.

"C'mon, man," Davis finally said, leaning back in his chair, his lips quirking into a smirk. "You know I don't ask for names. I couldn't tell you who it was even if a wanted to. That's how I survive in this business."

"I know, I'm not here looking for names," Clint said. "Just some kind of direction. Even just a rough description of the guy so I can keep an eye out and maybe avoid getting shot again." Davis was hesitating. "C'mon, Murph. I'm just trying to stay alive here. And I'm trying to keep other people alive while I'm at it. You know, this guy has taken two shots at me so far. He missed completely the first round and didn't manage to land a killing shot the second round. But between those two attempts, he's killed three random people and injured three others just because he wasn't good enough to hit his target and was taking a shot that he shouldn't have."

He paused as he met Davis' gaze. "You know as well as I do that people like us operate in a gray area. I know you have no illusions about what your weapons are used for. But I also know that while you have no qualms about selling to guys on either side of a gang war who are gunning at each other, you blacklist anyone to your knowledge who uses your weapons to attack random civilians. And that's exactly what this guy is doing with all his collateral damage. He takes another run at me, and more innocent people are gonna die, Murph. And this guy doesn't care who."

The smile finally dropped off of Davis' face and the difference was startling. He suddenly seemed older and more worn than he had just moments before. He glanced over toward the window before standing up and moving toward it, jerking the curtain shut in one quick motion.

Admittedly, Clint tensed a little at having this man step between him and his escape route. But the reaction was gone as quickly as it had come.

"You're damn lucky this guy was a royal douchebag," Davis muttered, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "It figures he was going after a _kid_ with those bullets."

Clint opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut again, and Phil could almost see the decision being made to let it go that this guy thought of him as just a kid. After all, even though he had put some meat on his bones in the last couple months, he was still small for his age and could easily pass for sixteen. Underestimating his age worked in their favor in this situation and Phil was proud of him for being able to swallow his pride for the sake of the mission.

After a moment, Davis turned back to them, regarding them each calmly. "I deal with jerkwads all the time. Industry hazard. But this guy put all the rest to shame. You know, if you were to go out and put one of your arrows through his eye, I wouldn't lose any sleep over it."

"I'd be happy to accommodate that for you," Clint said lowly with a dangerous smile. "You give me a description of this guy and I'll be more than happy to track him the hell down and give him what's coming to him."

There was a dark glint in Davis' eyes. "I can do better than that, buddy. I can tell you exactly where he'll be."

Clint's eyebrows shot up. "No shit? How'd you manage that?"

"He came back around the other day, twitchy as all shit and looking for more specialized bullets," Davis said. "I told him I needed time to make more and he practically went apeshit. Then he had the balls to demand that I hand deliver the bullets to him. The fuck does he think he is, you know? I finally agreed just to get him the hell outta here. He was making quite the ruckus and I don't need the neighbors poking around, you know? I also overcharged the shit outta him and had him pay me upfront." He paused and checked his watch. "I'm supposed to meet him in an hour."

Clint leaned forward. "Tell me where, and I promise he'll never come pissing around here again."

* * *

"This is a bad idea," Phil said… again.

"This guy is expecting Murph in—" Clint paused long enough to glance at his watch, "thirty-seven minutes. You said so yourself that it's going to take somewhere between an hour to an hour and a half for Fury to organize and transport a team here. There's no way this guy is going to hang around that long, especially if Murph doesn't show up."

"Yes, but running head first into this without backup is asking for trouble," Phil pointed out even as he was dropping extra ammo into the cargo pockets of his pants.

After their meeting with Davis they had retreated back to the Quinjet where Clint had immediately started checking and restocking his quiver with the arrows he had left there. Reluctantly, Phil started gearing up as well, knowing that it was a long shot that he was going to be able to talk Clint out of going after this guy.

"You can stay here and wait for backup if you want," Clint said as he straightened and slung quiver over his shoulders and secured it into place. "But I'm here to end this before more people get hurt."

Phil had to admit… it was tempting fate to put this off. Letting this guy get away when they were this close would be like handing him another shot at Clint. And that was the last thing that Phil wanted to do. He wanted to end this as well. He just wished there was a way to do it while keeping Clint off the front lines.

 _If wishes were horses, beggars would ride_ , Phil thought to himself dully as he double checked his sidearm.

"Fine," Phil said, holstering the weapon and turning to squarely face Clint, waiting until he had his full attention before he went on. "But we do this my way. You follow my lead and do what I say to the letter." Clint opened his mouth to protest, but Phil cut him off. "Clint, this is not up for negotiation. I know that you've been successful on your own for some time now, but if we're going to do this right now, we're going to do this as a _team_."

Clint looked at him, his gaze brimming with suspicion. "And as a _team_ , am I going to be relegated to watching the door or some shit?"

Phil met his gaze evenly. "We go in _together_ , Clint. We are both in this. We will utilize every advantage on this guy, and us outnumbering him is definitely an advantage. I just need to know that if I tell you to watch my back, you're going to do it. I need to know that if things go south and I tell you to get the hell out of there, you're going to do it." He paused, grabbing a sheathed knife from the weapons stash and holding it out to Clint hilt first. "Can you handle that?"

Clint paused as he considered this for a moment. Finally, he reached out and took the knife, giving a curt nod.

And just like that, they were on mission.

As they headed back into town, Phil carefully went over signals, taking special care to assign hand signals to certain commands he might make and making sure they had a signal for Clint to silently communicate that he couldn't hear him. Phil wished that there was a less rudimentary way to deal with the issue of Clint's damaged hearing, but for now they just had to work with what they had. If he had known beforehand that this was an issue he could have addressed it better. But now wasn't the time to dwell on that.

It was getting late in the evening before they reached the mostly abandoned apartment building on the sketchy side of town that Davis had directed them to, the sun just beginning to set and the shadows stretching their reach. They took a back way around the apartment building, cutting through an alley to avoid passing in view of the window of their target apartment.

They were in it now, there was no room for hesitation. Phil led the way up the stairs to the fourth floor of the building, his sidearm at the ready. The door to the apartment was halfway down the hall.

"I'll get the door," Phil said in an undertone as they made their way carefully down the hallway, glancing back to make sure that Clint was listening. "You take the shot." Clint met his gaze and nodded solemnly. Phil thought of something and then paused, turning to look at Clint squarely. "Don't kill him if you don't have to. I'd love to get the chance to ask who hired him."

Looking back on this moment, Phil would question this last second advice, wondering if things would have turned out differently if he hadn't voiced the thought.

Clint rolled his eyes slightly but nodded again. Phil was a little off put by Clint's sudden stoic silence. But perhaps that's just how he was before a hit.

Taking a steadying breath, Phil turned and led the rest of the way to the apartment. With any luck, they were about to end this thing.

They had gone over proper protocol for entering a locked room without knowing what was on the other side. Thankfully, Clint seemed to have been paying attention. As Phil squared up to the door, Clint put his back to the wall just to the left of the door. His grip adjusted slightly on his loosely nocked arrow that was pointed down at the floor between his feet. Then he gave Phil a nod, indicating that he was ready.

Without wasting any more time, Phil planted his left foot firmly on the floor, lifted his right and smashed the heel of his foot just below the door handle.

The fact that he needed two kicks before the door popped open was probably ultimately what cost them dearly.

As soon as the door was open, Clint was rolling off the wall and into the doorway, his bow suddenly drawn and let an arrow fly even shots were fired. To his credit – or possibly simply his lack of concern for his own wellbeing – Clint moved farther in to the room as he drew another arrow and let that one fly as well.

"Don't move!" Phil yelled as he entered the apartment behind Clint, his gun drawn and ready.

It took a moment for him to comprehend the scene. There were two arrows imbedded in the wall next to the window on the other side of the room, which had forced the hostile to move away from his only escape route. That was smart. Between Clint's third drawn arrow and now Phil's gun pointed at him, the man had frozen, looking back and forth between the room, his gun up but wavering between Phil and Clint, unsure which to focus on.

The moment seemed frozen in time. As Phil took in the man's face he couldn't help but feel like he was familiar somehow. Like he had seen him before, but he couldn't for the life of him place where.

It wasn't until Clint spoke that everything came slamming into place.

"Barney?" Clint said hoarsely.

Barney Barton. Clint's older brother and only known living relative, looking a little more ragged than he had in his military photo, his hair starting to grow out from his buzz cut and his clothes worn.

Phil saw what happened next in slow motion. He saw the hesitation in Clint's every muscle, the way the point of his arrow dipped ever so slightly, the way his eyes clouded at the sight before him. He saw that he wasn't going to take the shot… at the same time that he saw Barney shift his aim solidly to Clint and pull the trigger.

He didn't have time to think, he only had time to act.

"Clint, move!" Phil shouted as he launched himself toward Clint, shoving him hard just as he heard the gunshot tear through the air.

For an undetermined amount of time, all Phil knew was white hot pain. It was only when he heard several more shots that he forced himself back to the present situation. He was aware of a rough hand fisting in his collar and yanking him up… which was strange because he didn't remember falling to the ground.

" _LET 'EM GO!_ "

Clint's voice – filled with more rage than Phil had heard from him, to the point of hoarseness – filtered in to his consciousness as he looked around through blurred vision. Clint had somehow ended up on the opposite side of the room – dodging the shots that Phil had heard just moments ago maybe? – his bowstring drawn taut again and his arrow pointed steadily at a spot just above and to the left of Phil. If he tilted his head, Phil could just glimpse Barney's profile looming over him… as well as the barrel of a gun pointed down directly at his head.

Phil dragged in a painful breath, trying to take stock of himself. Clearly, he had been shot, but the pain wasn't localized yet, so it was hard to tell where exactly without taking a visual assessment of himself. Somewhere around the right side of his chest, if he had to guess. He found that he wasn't too concerned about that detail though as he could not take his eyes off the scene in front of him.

He realized belatedly that his gun was gone. He had a knife stashed in a holster at his back, but from this angle and with his injury it would be next to impossible for him to land a killing blow on his first strike. And that would lead to a high probability of either him or Clint getting shot before Barney could be taken down.

For now, all he could do was let this play out between the brothers.

"I don't think so, kiddo," Barney sneered. "I'm gonna need you to lower that bow. Nice and easy now."

A ghost of an arrogant smirk played over Clint's lips for just a moment, though his eyes were blazing with anger. "You of all people should know that won't make a difference." The point of the arrow remained steady.

"True," Barney allowed, inclining his head slightly in acquiescence. "But it would make me feel… less twitchy." He jerked the gun in his hand to underline the point.

There was a moment of tense silence, the only noise was Phil's suddenly labored breathing. Nobody moved.

 _Don't do it, Clint,_ Phil tried to silently convey. _Do not lower that bow._ But Clint didn't look at him, his steely gaze leveled evenly at his brother.

Then, the point of Clint's arrow dropped a fraction. Then another fraction. Then, all at once, the bow was lowered in front of him, the arrow still nocked loosely, but now pointed directly down at the ground between Clint's feet. His features remained defiant though, and Barney seemed to read that in him.

"Not that you have the stones anyway, baby bro," Barney taunted, his eyes flashing dangerously, "but keep in mind that I know how quickly you can get that bow up … and that bullets are faster than arrows. Right?"

"I could still get a shot off before the bullet would cross this room," Clint reminded him lowly. "And if you shoot him," he inclined his head toward Phil slightly while keeping his eyes on Barney, "you lose the only reason I haven't put an arrow through each of your hands, so you never shoot anyone ever again."

"So… it seems we have a stalemate," Barney said conversationally.

"Seems to be," Clint agreed calmly. "So… while we seem to have some time on our hands… you wanna tell me _why_? Why you _fucking shot_ me?" By the time he finished speaking there was a burning anger in his low voice.

"It wasn't anything personal," Barney said. "It was just a job. You know, a little something to bring in some extra pocket money. I was only working off a location until it was time to take the shot. I didn't know it was you when I agreed to the job."

"But you still took the job, and when it came down to it you still _took the fucking shot_ ," Clint spat, his voice cracking slightly as his eyes shined suspiciously brightly. "And when that didn't work you came back and tried to finish the fucking job!"

"And you apparently pissed off the wrong goddamn people… _again_!" Barney shot back, anger showing in his voice for the first time. "How is that _my_ fucking fault? I wasted how many years of my life trying to take care of you and cleaning up after you while we were kids! I can't spend my entire life cleaning up your fucking messes, Clint!"

It was subtle, but Phil could see the small gasp as if all the air had been forcefully drawn from Clint's lungs.

"That's not a wasted life," Phil growled, forcing his tone to be steady. His eyes stayed on Clint as he spoke, willing him to believe the words. "That's what family does for one another."

The muzzle of the gun cracked across Phil's forehead, his vision whiting out for a moment before the scene in front of him slowly swam back into focus.

"And who the fuck are you?" Barney demanded, clearly not actually expecting an answer.

"Let him go, Barney," Clint said lowly. "He's got nothing to do with this. This is between me and you."

As Phil refocused on Clint, he saw that his bow was back up, the point of the nocked arrow once again pointed steadily at his brother.

But Barney just smirked. "If you were gonna shoot me, you woulda done it the second my gun moved. Like I said… you don't have the stones, baby bro. Might as well drop that bow since you're obviously not gonna use it."

"So, what's your play?" Clint demanded. His tone was flat, unemotional. "I drop my bow so that you can shoot your brother? Is that what you want? To kill me?"

At that, the smirk dropped off Barney's face like a lead weight crashing into the ocean.

"You think I _want_ this?" he asked in a low voice. "I never wanted _any_ of this! But I'm stuck here, cleaning up your mess, _again_. I tried to take it easy on you, after I missed the first time in Chicago I tried to frame the collateral damage on you. Figured if you were locked up they might not care about taking you out. But when those charges strangely disappeared, I had to figure something else out. If I don't finish this job, they will come after _me_ next. What do you expect me to do? Die for you?"

Clint's only response to that was to blink slowly, his features completely unreadable. Phil would have given anything to be able to see into the kid's head. To know what he was thinking. He had to understand that this wasn't what family did to one another… didn't he?

"What do you want from me in exchange for letting Phil go?" Clint finally asked flatly.

 _No!_ Phil thought to himself frantically. He knew exactly what Barney wanted. Clint had to as well. So why was he even humoring him?

"Drop that bow and arrow to the ground," Barney said in an expressionless tone. "Turn around with your hands behind your head. Let me finish this job. And I'll let him go."

"No," Clint said lowly, and Phil felt just a moment of relief before Clint continued. "You have to let Phil go first. And I'm not gonna turn around. If you want to kill me, Barney, you're going to have to look me in the eye while you do it." A morbid smirk crossed his lips. "Unless you don't have the _stones_."

"Clint," Phil hissed angrily, stunned that Clint actually seemed to be considering this as a viable option.

He didn't get the chance to say anything else though as he felt the barrel of the gun crack across his temple again. This time as the white pain faded, a gray film seemed to settle in across his vision. It seemed he was only conscious through sheer force of will at this point.

For what seemed like the first time, Clint broke his gaze away from Barney and looked directly at Phil. For just the briefest of moments, Clint's eyes were open and vulnerable; worry, pain, fear all fighting to be the prominent emotion in the storm of his blue grey eyes.

But it only lasted a moment. As Clint shifted his gaze back to his older brother, his eyes were cold as steel.

"Barney, let him go," Clint said with a chilling amount of calm. "And I'll give you what you want."

* * *

Clint felt a strange sense of peace settling in. He had a plan, but needed to work quickly, because Phil was losing a lot of blood from the bullet wound in his shoulder as well as the gashes now opened across the side of his head and the longer this dragged on, the worse he was looking.

"Drop the bow, and I'll let him go," Barney answered calmly.

Clint knew his brother would counter with that demand. He had already been calculating that scenario in his head, knowing that he was going to have to play this exactly right.

He just had to hope that Barney had paid as little attention to his act in the circus as he thought he did.

Clint released the tension on the bow string, shifting his bow ninety degrees so that it was parallel to the ground with the arrow resting on top. Then in the same fluid motion, he tossed both bow and arrow in front and slightly to his left, relieved when the arrow was only knocked a little out of place as it came to rest. It had been a while since he had performed this trick after all.

He watched as Barney's eyes followed the weapon to where it fell, and to draw his attention back to him Clint put his hands out at his sides, palms out.

"Now let him go, Barney," Clint said steadily. "He needs medical attention."

"Sure, sure," Barney said, letting go of the collar of Phil's shirt with a slight shove. To his credit, Phil was just able to get a hand out to catch himself in a hunched position. Clint was impressed that he was still even conscious. But he didn't have time to dwell on that as the gun shifted from Phil to him. "First thing's first, though."

It was only when the barrel of the gun was squarely pointed at him that Clint dared to move.

He dropped into a crouch and threw himself hands first toward where his bow lay. He heard the shot and felt the burn across his bicep, but it felt like he experienced both from a great distance. His hands hit his bow and the arrow that still lay on top of it as the second shot was fired. Gripping the bow and arrow, he slid into an easy somersault over top of the weapon – vaguely hearing another shot, or was it two? – landing on his knees as he brought the bow up to a perfect firing position with the arrow nocked in place.

He fired at the gun in the next breath, knocking it cleanly from Barney's hand. As the arrow made contact, he already had another arrow loaded and let it fly, knowing full well that Barney was about to make a break for the door to his left.

Even as he was moving, the arrow sunk into his brother's shoulder, eliciting a guttural cry of agony. But his self-preservation instinct was strong and despite a slight stumble he still sprinting toward the door.

Despite the opportunity, Clint didn't take another shot. And a second later, Barney had disappeared through the door, his footsteps pounding a retreat down the hallway.

Clint paused long enough to take a steadying breath before he was moving. He didn't go after Barney though. Instead, he ran for Phil.

"Phil?" Clint called desperately as he skidded to his knees beside the man, dropping his bow but keeping it strategically within easy reach.

Phil was still holding himself up with one hand, but his head was bowed and his breathing sounded terribly labored. Clint's eyes immediately went to the exit wound on the back of Phil's shoulder. It was bleeding steadily, his shirt soaked with red. Not immediately seeing anything he could use to slow the bleeding, Clint pressed his bare hand firmly to the wound.

"Ah!" Phil gasped, and Clint felt relief that the man was aware enough to have a reaction.

"Sorry," he mumbled, though he didn't dare move his hand or release any of the pressure.

Up close, Clint could clearly see that Phil had lost a frightening amount of blood. It was some kind of miracle that he was even still conscious.

"Where's your phone, Phil, we need to call for help."

But, just then, Phil's arm gave out. Clint just barely managed to get his free hand under him in order to keep him from face planting on the floor.

"Shit, Phil," he cursed, trying to control his panic. "C'mon, stay with me, goddamnit."

He carefully helped Phil shift back into a seated position, though he was swaying unsteadily. Clint quickly found the front entry wound – thankfully not bleeding nearly as much as the exit wound – and placed his free hand firmly against it.

"Phil, you still with me?" Clint demanded sharply, shaking Phil slightly, hoping to clear the hazy look in his eyes.

"Shit," Phil spat, grimacing.

"Phil," Clint said sternly, leaning in and doing his best to meet Phil's gaze while keeping both hands clamped tightly over Phil's bleeding wounds. " _Phone_. Where is it?"

Phil's gaze wandered up to finally focus on Clint's face. His eyes widened, as if he saw something that he hadn't been expecting.

"Clint?" he wheezed.

"Yes," Clint confirmed, annoyed. They were wasting time and Phil was looking worse by the second. He hardened his tone, trying to sound commanding in order to get a better response. "Phone. _Now_ Phil."

Finally, he got the response he was looking for. Phil's hand moved sluggishly to his pocket, fumbling his phone out of it. Clint let go of the front entry wound so that he could pick it up. He swiped his thumb across the unlock screen, but the touchscreen didn't respond. That's when Clint realized that both his hands were now covered in Phil's blood. Not taking the time to really think about that fact, Clint quickly put the phone down and hastily wiped his fingers on his shirt before picking the phone up and trying again. This time the phone unlocked but Clint almost screamed in frustration as now the phone had the nerve to demand a password.

"Okay, Phil, look at me," Clint said. He was impressed with how calm and firm his voice sounded. In reality, he felt about a strong wind away from hysterics. He waved the hand holding the phone in front of Phil's face, willing him to focus on just one more task. "I need your password."

"Six…" Phil mumbled, taking in a rattling breath before continuing painfully, seeming to force out each word. "Three… eight… one... one… four…"

Relief swept over Clint at getting a prompt response. He quickly keyed in the password. It took him a few seconds longer than he would have liked to find where the contacts were – cursing having never had a cell phone before the entire time – and then quickly found Nick Fury's name. After he tapped the name, he was thankful that a helpful list of options popped up on the screen while the call was connecting, one of which was a speaker phone option. He hit the button and then put the phone down on the ground next to him and quickly returned his hand to the still bleeding bullet wound.

" _Fury_."

"Hey, so, we need a ride outta here, like right the fuck now," Clint said quickly without preamble.

There was a long beat of silence.

" _Barton_?" Fury finally said, sounding baffled.

"Yeah, Phil's been shot, he needs medical attention like ten minutes ago," Clint said, the words tumbling out of his mouth, practically tripping over each other in his haste to get the information out.

" _How bad is it?_ " Fury demanded.

"I dunno," Clint said and even he could hear the panic starting to rise in his tone. "He's bleeding a lot and I didn't know a person could get so pale, so I'm gonna go with pretty fucking bad." His gaze swept the area, not convinced that Barney wasn't going to circle back and try to finish the job. "We need the hell outta here. Right now."

" _I need you to calm down, Barton,_ " Fury snapped. " _I've tracked this phone and already got the team in route to your position. You're lucky they were just making their approach, they should be there in five minutes. Now, where is he shot?_ "

"Shoulder," Clint answered shortly, his brain unable to process past answering the question.

" _Exit wound?_ "

"Yeah," Clint confirmed. His voice suddenly sounded thin to his ears.

" _Is he conscious?_ "

"Just barely," Clint said, tilting his head to see Phil's face. "His eyes are open but he's not really responding or focusing on anything."

" _Probably going into shock,_ " Fury said. " _Are you putting pressure on both the entry and exit wounds?_ "

"Yeah," Clint said.

" _Good_ ," Fury said. " _Keep putting pressure until the team gets there. Should be any minute._ "

Clint's eyes suddenly focused on his hand clamped to the back of Phil's shoulder. There was blood starting to creep up between his fingers.

"He's still losing blood," Clint said, as if it were going to make any difference at this point. His voice was shaking.

" _Barton_ ," Fury said sharply, causing Clint to flinch slightly as if to avoid a physical attack. " _Keep it together. You are doing everything you can right now._ "

Clint swallowed thickly and then nodded, not really registering that Fury couldn't see the gesture as his eyes stayed glued to the blood still trying to escape Phil's body.

Phil had saved him. Barney had been aiming for a kill shot in Clint's hesitation. Phil had pushed him out of the way, taking the bullet that had been meant for him. In his shock, Clint had just let it happen, and when Barney had shifted his aim, Clint had reacted on pure instinct, moving quickly across the room and away from the bullets flying at him.

Leaving Phil unprotected. Giving Barney the opening he had needed to get his hands on Phil.

Suddenly, Clint was finding it hard to breath around the lump in his throat. If Phil didn't make it, it was going to be his fault. He wasn't sure how he would live with himself.

The sound of an approaching Quinjet drew Clint's attention for a moment. Then he turned back to Phil, leaning in close.

"You can't do this to me Phil," he said in a low, fast tone. "You can't leave me, not now, not like this. You asked me to trust you and I did. I trusted you to _stay_. To not leave me. So, _please_ Phil… _stay_. Please stay with me. Okay?"

Phil lifted his head, looking up him with pain in his eyes. His lips moved but no sound came out. He took in a painful, rattling breath as he reached up one hand and latched onto Clint's nearest forearm. The grip was weak, but it was there. And it's meaning was clear.

 _I'm not going anywhere, kid._

Despite the assurance, Clint noticed that his head was suddenly swimming and his vision was strangely clouded.

Suddenly there were people in the room. Clint tensed as the realization hit him, even after he saw the SHIELD insignia on their bulletproof vests.

"We got him," someone was saying to him, as hands came down on his shoulders and pulled him away from Phil. He didn't even have it in him to resist. "We've got him, Barton. You can stand down."

But he didn't want to stand down. He wanted to do something. He wanted to stop the blood from gushing out of Phil. He wanted to go after Barney and tear him limb from limb with his bare hands. He wanted to bellow at the sky, rage at anyone watching over him for potentially taking someone who had become important to him away from him.

But he found that he couldn't do any of those things. He could only sit on the floor and watch numbly as two SHIELD agents loaded Phil onto a stretcher.

How had this happened? How had he let this happen?

When the stretcher was lifted up, Clint found himself standing. But when they moved, he suddenly felt rooted to the spot. He just stood there until suddenly there was an agent in front of him, speaking rapidly.

"We can't land, we gotta go, we gotta go now."

Clint stared blankly for a moment, hardly comprehending what he was saying, but when the stretcher with Phil on it moved out of the room he found that his feet had woken up and were now carrying him out into the hallway of the building. He mechanically followed the group, jogging to keep up as the SHIELD agents carried the stretcher up the stairs. Clint didn't even realize why they were going up until they got to the roof and he saw the Quinjet hovering over the building.

A platform was lowered from the back of the jet and Phil was quickly loaded onto it and lifted up. A rope ladder was lowered for the rest of them. Clint remembered looking at the ladder… but he didn't remember climbing it. The next thing he knew, he was standing in the cargo bay of the Quinjet, looking down at Phil as a medic worked to control the bleeding.

The hum of the Quinjet engine buzzed in his ears, blocking out any other sounds with its constant whine. His eyes were drawn to where Phil lay, watching an IV being placed and his wounds being packed with bandages. He had fallen unconscious at some point. He glanced around, trying to take in the people around him, but everyone's mouths were moving, and he didn't know where to focus.

A hand came down on his shoulder. He knocked it away, taking a step away. Someone was in front of him, they were saying something, but he couldn't focus on his lips. The man reached for him and Clint felt rather than heard himself growl and he took a step back and balled his hands into fists, sending a clear message: _touch me and get punched in the face._

Then he felt a pinch in his neck. He flinched and stumbled away from the sensation. The last thing he remembered was the world fading to black as the metal floor rushed up to meet him.

* * *

 **Author's Note : **And there we have it! First I shot Clint, then I shot Phil. Clearly I love me some whump as a way to bond characters, haha. Anyone notice how Phil started thinking of Clint as Clint rather than Barton after he got shot? Clint just had that same shift! I love that symmetry. Anyway, let me know what you think! Until next chapter!

* * *

 _ **Chapter Eighteen Sneak Peek**_

Jac took a deep breath before she continued. "Look, Barton, believe it or not, the majority of the doctors here are equipped to handle gunshot wounds. But not all of them are equipped to handle _you_. So, I'm not going anywhere. Get it?" Clint couldn't think of anything to say to that. Obviously, Jac took his silence to be acceptance. "Okay, then. Let me get a look at you. I'm going to start with your head, okay? And _don't_ nod, I saw the way you almost passed out shaking your head before. Give me a verbal answer, Barton."

There was a slight pause as Clint had to work up the will to speak.

"Okay," he finally said, noticing with a vague amount of interest the way the word seemed to drag out of his throat and wondering what it had sounded like.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:** Hello everyone, I'm back! I appreciate your patience! For those who didn't see it, I did post a bonus scene for this story last week (posted as a separate story called Out of the Ashes – Clint's POV. No points for creativity with the title, haha!). It's a look at that first Quinjet ride from Clint's perspective, if you're interested, check it out!

Okay, in this chapter we get into lip reading from Clint's perspective. From my research, lip reading is not an exact science and is very dependent on how well the person speaking enunciates and what kind of dialect they speak in and such. I'm operating under the headcanon that because of his exceptional eyesight, when Clint is concentrating he can pretty much catch every word of someone with the average American dialect. But when he's unable to concentrate, he functions as an average lip-reading person, if that makes sense. So, words and parts of words that he misses are indicated with -. And if it's confusing… just remember that Clint is also confused!

Reviewer shout outs! Thank you all so much! **Nyla the lioness** ; **XYZArtemis** ; **reinedumal** ; **Onlyinitforthestories2** ; **TheRedScreech** ; **ELOSHAZZY** ; **Claire1080** ; **LisaG16** ; and **Melissa**! Also a special shout out to **Katie MacAlpine** for mathoning the whole story and reviewing as you went! I loved seeing your progression through all the chapters!

Also... I saw Avengers: Infinity War over the weekend... IT WAS AMAZING BUT I AM EMOTIONALLY COMPROMISED! If you haven't seen it yet, GO! It's definitely an experience for the big screen!

Okay, enough rambling! Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter Eighteen**

Movement. Noise. Both of those things overwhelmed Clint as he snapped back to consciousness.

 _Run!_

The instinct screamed at him, forcibly driving any other thoughts out of his head. He was shoving himself up into a sitting position as the noise and movement escalated. He blinked rapidly, but the harshly bright lights kept him from being able to make out anything around him. He was suddenly moving, only vaguely aware of the pain, merely a secondary thought to his sudden need to get away from... well, he wasn't exactly sure what, but somehow that didn't seem to matter.

"Sedate-"

"Help - here-"

"- and restrain-"

"-body move -ck-"

Words came to him in waves, but he couldn't focus on any one voice. There was too much happening at once and his chest suddenly felt like it was in a vice. His back hit something solid and panic and fear threatened to drown him.

"Barton!" The single command was pitched low and below the rest of the noise, cutting through to him. A hand grabbed at Clint's arm and he automatically jerked away from the intrusion.

"Don't fucking touch me," he growled as he desperately tried to blink his surroundings into focus.

But the voice was persistent, cutting through to him as the rest of the noise finally lessened.

"Barton, it's Dr. Hendricks. I need you to focus. Breath and listen to me, focus on my voice. Take a deep breath into your stomach."

 _"Deep breaths into your stomach, take it one breath at a time. You can do this."_

Phil's words came echoing back to him. He squeezed his eyes shut and dragged in a breath. Then another.

"Good, Barton, that's real good. Now, I need you to open your eyes and look at me. Can you do that?"

Clint took another steadying breath. Then he finally squinted his eyes open. Everything had a strange floating quality for a moment, but as he blinked he found that white walls and painfully bright florescent lights slowly came into focus. Then he finally focused on Dr. Hendricks standing in front of him, looking calm but concerned.

"That's better," Dr. Hendricks said with relief. "Can you tell me where you are?"

Clint took a moment to glance around the immediate area before focusing back on Dr. Hendricks.

"Infirmary." His voice rasped up his throat.

It wasn't the recovery room he had become used to in the past couple weeks. He was out in the general treatment area with beds separated by curtains.

"The team had to sedate you on the Quinjet when you wouldn't let them treat you. Do you remember that?"

Clint dragged his focus back to the doctor in front of him. He squinted slightly as he strained to think back. He couldn't remember much other than the panic that had consumed him. But suddenly, one crystal clear image solidified in his mind. The image of Phil lying unconscious on the stretcher, a medic struggling to control his bleeding. His next thought crashed over him like a bucket of ice water, bringing everything around him into dizzying focus.

"Where's Phil?"

Dr. Hendricks gave him a sympathetic look. "Barton, how about you sit down, and we can talk about it."

Clint reached out a hand to steady himself on the wall next to him. Dr. Hendricks took a quick step forward and reached out, but thankfully caught herself before she grabbed him, though Clint still couldn't help but flinch away from her.

"Where's Phil?"

He meant it to sound demanding, he really did. But his voice suddenly came out painfully thin.

"He's okay, Barton," Dr. Hendricks assured him evenly. "But I'm not telling you anything else until you sit down. We don't need you collapsing on top of everything else."

He had to admit that he was feeling more unsteady by the moment. He took a breath before pushing off the wall and stumbling over to the nearby hospital bed, sitting carefully on the edge. Dr. Hendricks followed, keeping her distance but still obviously ready to catch him if he fell.

"How does your side feel?" Dr. Hendricks asked, looking him over critically. "Can I check your bullet wound?"

Clint swallowed before he lifted his arm a little and motioned to his side with his other hand, granting silent permission.

"Phil's okay?" he asked hoarsely. He hoped that the doctor couldn't hear the desperation that lay just under his tone.

Dr. Hendricks glanced at him before she moved closer, carefully lifting up his shirt. He couldn't help but wince as she prodded at his wound. Everything hurt, but his side probably took the trophy for most painful. At least at the moment.

"I won't lie to you, he's not in good shape, Barton," Dr. Hendricks said, glancing up at him as if gauging his reaction. "I only got a brief look at him when they brought him in. But they stabilized him and just took him back in to surgery about ten minutes ago and were optimistic for his recovery."

It took a long moment for Clint to really comprehend what she was saying. He looked at Dr. Hendrick, blinking a few times to bring her back into focus, and also vaguely aware that he hadn't realized when she had gone out of focus.

Then, very suddenly, something in him clicked and something deep in his chest felt like it was twisting. Phil was still in danger and Dr. Hendricks was here fussing over him. He leaned back and would have jumped to his feet if his limbs didn't suddenly feel like they were made out of led.

"No, you need to… you need to help Phil…" Clint stammered, his gaze flitting wildly around as if he would suddenly spot the man before going back to focus on the woman in front of him.

"I promise you, Phil is well taken care of," Dr. Hendricks tried to assure him.

Clint shook his head firmly and immediately regretted the action as the world around him pitched to one side, forcing him to throw out a hand and brace himself on the bed to keep from toppling over. He took a moment, letting the world right itself up again before he looked at Dr. Hendricks and spoke.

"No. No, it _has_ to be you."

Dr. Hendricks sighed. "Listen Barton, I get it. I get that you want me to be the one in there with him because you care about him and you trust me. But here's the thing you're not thinking about… if I leave, that means someone else is going to have to come over here and treat _you_. Is that what you really want?"

"I'm fine, I've lived through worse," Clint said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Dr. Hendricks gave him a pained look. "Just because you have gone without necessary medical attention in the past, doesn't mean that you should continue to do so now that it's readily available to you."

It was spoken so softly, that her tone was completely lost to Clint's ears. Either that, or the background noise had increased in the last couple minutes. Luckily, she was speaking carefully, making it easier to read her lips, even with his focus such a fragile thing.

Dr. Hendricks took a deep breath before she continued. "Look, Barton, believe it or not, the majority of the doctors here are equipped to handle gunshot wounds. But not all of them are equipped to handle _you_. So, I'm not going anywhere. Get it?" Clint couldn't think of anything to say to that. Obviously, Dr. Hendricks took his silence to be acceptance. "Okay, then. By some miracle, your gunshot wound looks okay, so I'm going to check your other injuries. I'm going to start with your head, okay? And _don't_ nod, I saw the way you almost passed out shaking your head before. Give me a verbal answer, Barton."

There was a slight pause as Clint had to work up the will to speak.

"Okay," he finally said, noticing with a vague amount of interest the way the word seemed to drag out of his throat and wondering what it had sounded like.

"Alright," Dr. Hendricks said, her features noticeably more gentle as she carefully stepped closer.

He wasn't sure why she wanted to check his head until she reached up and began unwinding a bandage wrapped around his forehead. He hadn't even realized that was there. He couldn't help but flinch at the doctor's touch. He wasn't great with physical contact on a good day, and today was nowhere near a good day. All his nerves were buzzing, and he was wound so tight that he felt about a strong breeze away from completely snapping.

And if that happened, he honestly wasn't sure if he would lash out violently or simply dissolve into a puddle of the floor.

"You'll definitely need stitches," Dr. Hendricks informed him as she leaned in to examine the wound. Clint only vaguely recalled getting creased by one of Barney's bullets. "But the good news is it's a superficial wound. I think we can safely skip the CT scan. Here, hold this to the wound while I check your other injuries."

She held out the bandage and Clint took it and pressed it to the throbbing spot on the side of his head. He closed he eyes for a moment, suddenly feeling unsteady where he sat. He wondered vaguely if he still had some of the sedative in his system. He opened his eyes to see that Dr. Hendricks was backing up and looking at him with concern.

"- hear me, Barton?"

Dr. Hendricks' voice had gotten lost amongst the rest of the noise in the infirmary.

"Sorry, what'd you say?" Clint mumbled tiredly as he tried to focus on Dr. Hendricks' lips, a task that was getting more difficult by the minute. What he wouldn't give to be able to switch to using sign language right now.

"I'm g- - check you- arm -xt, -kay?" Dr. Hendricks said slowly, watching Clint critically.

Clint had to look over at one arm and then the other before he saw another bandage around his bicep that he had no recollection of. Another bullet crease, he assumed.

"Yeah, okay," Clint sighed.

He didn't flinch as much as he felt Dr. Hendricks' fingers on his arm, undoing the bandage. He attributed the lack of reaction to the sudden exhaustion that was weighing down on him.

"This w- need stitches too," Dr. Hendricks told him after a pause. She stepped back and gave Clint an appraising look. "I also w- to - a blood transfusion."

"Transfusion?" Clint echoed, struggling to keep up with the situation.

"You've l- quite a bit - blood, I can tell j- by how pale you are," Dr. Hendricks explained patiently. "Rather than waiting for your body - make mo- blood - on - own, we're going to help - along. We- hook you up to an IV a- -un blood from our bank back into your system."

Clint's eyes flitted around the area again. A group of nurses were speaking nearby. Patients were wheeled by; heart monitors and respirators could be heard. The infirmary was particularly active and more and more of what Dr. Hendricks was saying was getting lost to Clint. His head was starting to pound from trying to concentrate. Finally, just before Dr. Hendricks spoke again, he blurted out a request.

"Can we… can we go into a room?"

He desperately needed to get away from all this noise.

He didn't catch Dr. Hendricks' response, but he assumed she had agreed when she gently placed a hand on his arm and helped him stand, leading him on unsteady feet back to the recovery rooms. He gave a sigh of relief as the door closed behind him, blocking out the noise from the rest of the infirmary. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed in the room, resisting the urge to lay down just yet. He suspected if he lay down he wasn't going to get back up.

"Is that better?" Dr. Hendricks asked, and Clint was finally able to actually hear her voice again.

"Thank you," he mumbled by way of answer.

"We'll do the stitches first, then we'll get you set up for the transfusion," Dr. Hendricks said briskly as she moved around the room, gathering supplies.

"How long until we know more about Phil?" Clint asked, his words slurring together a bit as he vacantly followed Dr. Hendricks' movements with his gaze.

"He'll be in surgery for several hours," Dr. Hendricks said, looking at him sympathetically as she placed the supplies on a small metal table and dragged it over next to the bed. "I'll make sure you get any information as soon as we know it. Now, hold still. I'm going to start with your head."

"Wait," Clint said suddenly as another thought hit him hard. "My quiver… where's my quiver?" He had a vague recollection of it sliding off his shoulder when he was running to help Phil. Had he picked it back up?

Dr. Hendricks looked at him oddly. "I saw your bow out there, they checked it in at the nurse's station when they brought you in," she said, clearly unsure why he was so concerned. "But I didn't see your quiver. I'm sure it's somewhere though, maybe it's still in the Quinjet."

But Clint had a sinking feeling in his chest. It would be just his damn luck that on top of everything else he had lost that damn thing.

As Dr. Hendricks tended to the wound on his head, Clint could barely feel the sting of the needle. Sitting still like this finally brought the entire situation crashing down over him. It was suddenly like someone was cinching a belt around his chest, compressing his heart and lungs painfully. He looked down at his hands. They were clean. At some point someone must have washed off Phil's blood.

"It was my fault," Clint found himself mumbling, only half aware that he was saying the words out loud.

Dr. Hendricks paused in her work, looking at him. "None of this was your fault, Barton."

He knew that it was supposed to be comforting, but she didn't know. She hadn't been there, she hadn't seen what happened. And suddenly, words were spilling out of his mouth before he had even realized he had decided to speak.

"I… I hesitated. I saw him, and I hesitated. I could have ended it, but I didn't. And because of that, Phil got shot." He blinked slowly as he shifted his gaze to Dr. Hendricks. "Even after he was shot, I left him unprotected to get out of the way of the bullets. I… I couldn't think, not until B… not until he had him." He squeezed his eyes shut. "If Phil dies, it'll be all my fault."

"Barton." Dr. Hendricks waited until Clint opened his eyes and looked at her. "Admittedly, I don't know what exactly went down on this mission. But I do know this: you came back here alive. Phil came back here alive. You both were injured, but they are all fixable injuries. We have the best surgeons here and I have every confidence that they will be able to put Phil back together again. Whatever you did, it led to our current situation, and let me tell you Barton, our current situation is not as dire as it could be right now."

She was watching him carefully and seemed to be able to tell that her words weren't getting through to him. She sighed as she carefully set down her instruments and then turned back to meet Clint's vacant gaze.

"Barton, have you ever been on an airplane?" she asked. "Not the Quinjet, but a normal, civilian commercial flight?" Clint numbly shook his head, unsure where she was going with this. "Well, when you're on an airplane, just before takeoff the flight attendants always go through safety procedures with the passengers. It's basically the same presentation on every flight, no matter the airline. They point out emergency exits, show you were life vests are, that kind of thing.

"Now, if the cabin were to suddenly lose pressure, they tell you that oxygen masks will fall from the ceiling. Then they have clear instructions to secure your own mask before helping anyone else. The reason for that is the loss of pressure causes a quick drop in oxygen, and if you don't get your mask on quick enough you're likely to lose consciousness. It seems selfish, but in order to be helpful to anyone else, you must first secure your own mask.

"That's what happened today, Barton. You took care of yourself so that you'd be able to help Phil. It may not have seemed like it at the time, but it was exactly what needed to happen."

Clint took in a shuddering breath and then nodded as steadily as he could. Not that he believed for a moment that he was blameless, but he did want to relieve Dr. Hendricks of this strange urge that she seemed to have to try and free him from guilt.

He wasn't so sure that Dr. Hendricks was convinced, but she did go back to work. Twenty minutes later, Clint had fresh stitches on his head and his arm and Dr. Hendricks was setting up his blood transfusion, which he found to basically be the same thing as an IV. It was just when she was finishing up when the door to the recovery room opened. Clint couldn't help but flinch at the sudden intrusion but was slower to shift his gaze and take in the figure of Director Fury standing in the doorway.

"Director Fury," Dr. Hendricks greeted wearily as she glanced over at him. "Can I help you with something?"

"I'd like a few minutes to speak with Barton," Fury said.

"Surely that can wait," Dr. Hendricks said firmly.

"It really can't," Fury replied calmly.

"He's in no shape for that right now," Dr. Hendricks almost snapped, spinning so that she was squarely facing Fury, meeting his gaze.

"Five minutes," Fury countered evenly. The statement wasn't quite a demand but not a request either. "I just have a few questions for him and then I'll leave him to get some rest."

Dr. Hendricks' gaze wandered from Fury to Clint. Then she turned her back to Fury and stepped closer to Clint, meeting his gaze.

"Do you feel up to a few questions, Barton?" she asked.

The look in her eye told Clint that if he said no, she would drag the Director of SHIELD out of the infirmary herself. In that way, she reminded Clint so much of Barbara Miller, the mother in the one foster home him and Barney had been placed in so many years ago it often felt like a lifetime. She had been tough but kind, and most importantly she had been a stable figure in what had become chaotic lives for two young kids.

Until a sudden heart attack had taken her from him too. Because nothing good in Clint's life ever lasted.

Clint swallowed thickly, knowing he had been silent for too long. He forcible pulled himself back to the present, focusing back on the doctor who was now watching him with concern.

"Yeah, its fine," he assured her.

Dr. Hendricks looked far from convinced but seemed to decide to take his words at face value.

"Do you want me to stay?" she asked.

Clint almost agreed. Her presence had become almost as comfortable as Phil's. But he didn't want to appear weak in front of Director Fury. He sat up a bit straighter before answering.

"No, that's okay."

Dr. Hendricks eyed him critically but nodded. "I'll be right outside if you need me." She turned on her heels and started for the door, but paused as she reached Fury, leveling him with an even look. "Five minutes. I'm timing you."

And with that, she was gone, closing the door firmly behind her.

Clint was still blinking after her as Fury approached. He focused on the man just as he was pulling over a chair and taking a seat in front of him. Clint watched him curiously, as the Director was now below eye level to him as he sat still perched on the edge of the bed. It seemed so… _casual_. It wasn't something that he expected from the Director of SHIELD, especially given how epically he had fucked up the mission and almost cost Phil Coulson his life.

"How are you holding up, Barton?"

The question was even more unexpected than Director Fury's posture.

"I'm not the one you should be asking," Clint found himself snapping. "I'm not the one who got shot."

"It's not the first bullet Phil Coulson has taken," Fury said with a frustrating amount of calm. "I'm willing to bet it won't be the last. I'm told that the surgeons are optimistic for a full recovery."

Clint narrowed his gaze at the man in front of him. Was he really trying to lift the blame from him too?

"He shouldn't have taken it," Clint spat. "He shoulda just let it take my dumbass out when I froze like it was fucking amateur hour."

Because he wasn't an amateur. He had killed people before, and once the decision was made he had never once hesitated to let his arrow fly. Since taking control of his own life, he had taken responsibility for every single arrow he had fired.

But this was different. This was Barney.

And as the thought hit him with all the subtly of a speeding freight train, he felt embarrassingly close to vomiting all over the Director's shoes. He swallowed thickly, shoving the thought out of his head and forcing himself to focus on the present.

"Take a breath, Barton," Fury instructed evenly. "Now, why don't we back up and start from the beginning. Tell me what happened."

Clint scrubbed a hand over his mouth, his brain suddenly going a mile a minute. He took a moment to attempt to organize his thoughts before he finally spoke.

"Murph told us where to find the guy he sold the bullets to." His voice was embarrassingly thin. He had an odd detachment from the explanation that was coming out of his mouth, as if it was someone else altogether to was retelling the events of that day. "We went to confront the guy, found him right where Murph told us he'd be. Phil kicked the door in and I went in first. The guy inside fired first, was heading for the window but I fired two arrows to drive him in the other direction."

He paused as it felt like his stomach was suddenly sinking in his chest, a wave of dizziness suddenly washing over him for a moment. He took a deep breath, focusing on a spot on the floor under his feet before he went on mechanically.

"Guy took a shot at me, but Phil pushed me out of the way. I didn't realize he was hit, and when the guy kept firing I… I ran. So, I wouldn't get shot." Had his voice gotten even thinner? Was it even his voice that was still speaking? "I ended up on the other side of the room and the guy grabbed Phil, pointed his gun at him. Told me to give myself up or he'd shoot him. I dropped my bow, but when he turned his gun on me I grabbed up my bow again and fired. Managed to disarm him and while he was running I hit him in the shoulder. But… he got away." Then he dragged his gaze up, but still couldn't quite meet the Director's eye. "I'm sorry. Sir."

Fury was quiet for a minute that seemed to last an eternity, before he finally spoke.

"Things went to shit, Barton. No way around that fact. But what matters is how you reacted to it. You were able to fix it; that's what really counts in the end." Fury leaned forward, ducking his head a bit to catch Clint's gaze. "Look at me, kid. You went out there at seventeen years old with no official training and even though things went sideways, you still brought yourself and Phil back here alive. That's not nothing, Barton. There are agents twice your age who wouldn't have been able to pull that off."

Clint could only stare blankly at the man. This wasn't at all the reaction he expected from the hardass Director of SHIELD.

"I know you're not in any shape to absorb any of this right now," Fury went on. "So, for now I'll leave it at this: Phil Coulson cares a great deal about you. It isn't just anyone he would instinctually take a bullet for."

Clint swallowed thickly. He was spared from trying to come up with a response to that when the door to the recovery room opened.

"Alright, boys, that was five minutes," Dr. Henricks announced. "Barton, it's time for a nice sedative and some rest."

"I have one more question," Fury said, leveling his gaze on Clint. "Did the guy say anything during the exchange? Anything that might help us figure out who he is?"

That moment froze in time, stretching out for an eternity. Clint knew that he had taken too long to answer when he noticed Director Fury shifting almost uncomfortably in his seat, something that he had never seen the Director do before. He opened his mouth, assumedly to pose the question again, when suddenly words were falling out of Clint's mouth.

"No. No he didn't."

Fury looked at him skeptically, and for a moment Clint thought he was going to question him further. But as Dr. Hendricks approached, he seemed to think better of it.

Fury stood up, making room for Dr. Hendricks at Clint's bedside.

"Get some rest, Barton," Fury finally said. "We'll talk again later."

"Sir," Clint suddenly spoke up, making Fury pause in his retreat and look back at him. "Did anybody bring back my quiver? I think I dropped it in the apartment."

Fury seemed to analyze him for a moment. "No, not that I know of. I've still got a team in the area trying to track down the shooter. I'll have someone swing by and see if it's still there."

Clint nodded his thanks and Fury turned and left.

"Okay, Barton, I need you horizontal," Dr. Hendricks said briskly.

Clint didn't have the energy or will to argue. He allowed her to help him lay down on the bed. He made no effort to protest the syringe with the sedative that was poked into his arm. He didn't want to think anymore. He didn't want to feel. He welcomed the darkness that rushed over him, wrapping him in warmth and comfort. He sank into it like a security blanket and just a few moments passed before he knew no more.

* * *

Consciousness came slowly back to Phil. He was often aware of light and sometimes even noises briefly before drifting back into the darkness. It was tempting to just float in the comfortable nothingness, but at some point, the darkness began slipping away and he wasn't able to pull it back.

Carefully, he blinked his eyes open, noting with a roiling stomach that the room around him tilted uncomfortably. It took several long minutes of steady breathing before his surroundings settled and he was able to take in the recovery room in the infirmary.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Phil." Phil's gaze followed the sound of the familiar voice, looking blearily up at Jac who was standing at his bedside, fiddling with an IV. After a moment she dropped her hand down and turned to him, giving him a comforting smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Like—" He cut himself off and cleared his throat, but when he spoke again his voice didn't sound much better. "Like I've been hit by a truck."

"Getting shot in the chest will have that effect," Jac commented.

"How long was I out?" Phil asked, struggling to remember exactly what happened. He reached up a hand to rub his eyes and was vaguely surprised when his fingers brushed a bandage on the side of his head.

"About a day," Jac assured him.

Phil squeezed his eyes shut, straining to put together the pieces of memories that seemed to be floating just out of his reach. They had met with Murphy Davis who had given them a lead on their assassin. They had gone after the lead and had discovered… Barney Barton.

And with that thought, it all came rushing back to him. Clint's hesitation. Phil pushing him out of the way, taking the bullet that was meant for him. The confrontation between the brothers, Clint promising to give Barney what he wanted if he let Phil go. Then, one image crystalized in his mind, remembered with a painful amount of clarity: Clint leaning over him, raw fear and panic in his eyes and a truly frightening amount of blood staining the side of his head.

For a moment, Phil had to gasp for breath as he looked up at Jac desperately.

"Where's Clint?" he rasped, panic sparking in his tone. "Is he okay?"

"Take a breath, Phil," Jac instructed calmly. "Your sentry may be currently sleeping on the job, but he's fine." She nodded toward the other side of the room.

Phil turned his head and started at the sight. Clint was sitting in a chair pushed into the corner of the room, his feet propped up on another chair that was situated across from him. His head – which had a white bandage wrapped around it – was lolling to one side, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. There was an IV stand next to him with two IV bags hanging from it, tubes from the bags trailing down and disappearing into the crook of his arms. He was paler than usual, and his breathing was slow and even, as he was fast asleep.

Clint Barton suddenly looked painfully young.

"Is he okay?" Phil asked quietly.

Jac followed his gaze and sighed. "He'll live. His injuries were mostly superficial, if we're ignoring the pesky blood loss issue. I stitched him up and he already had a transfusion. The fluids and antibiotics are just a precaution at this point. We don't need any more surprises."

"I'm surprised he was allowed to stay," Phil mused.

Jac gave him a sly grin. " _Officially_ , he's still in need of medical care and unable to be returned to his cell at this time. You're not the only one who can bend the rules, you know." She paused, sighing as she glanced over at the sleeping teenager. "I'd much rather he still be horizontal right now, though. But given the shit fit he threw when we tried to move him from that spot after you came out of surgery, I figured that was a battle I wasn't going to win without involuntary sedation. And I didn't want to have to resort to that again."

"Again?" Phil questioned.

"I'm told he had to be forcefully sedated on the Quinjet," Jac informed flatly. "They think he was going into shock and apparently he wouldn't let anyone treat his injuries, despite the fact that he was bleeding all over the place." Jac shook her head, frowning as she looked over at the kid. "But shock really doesn't explain it. He was definitely in and out of shock when he woke up here, but if he were in shock on the jet he would have been more complacent. I feel like there was something else going on that we missed."

Phil swallowed thickly, knowing that was exactly true. He knew exactly what had happened. With the noise from the Quinjet and no one knowing that Clint had partial deafness – not to mention what Clint had just been through – he was willing to bet anything that communication issues had been the cause of Clint lashing out.

It was something that would have to be addressed going forward… but now wasn't the time or place to get into it.

Phil's eyes wandered back to Clint as the kid shifted slightly in his sleep. Something else was bothering him.

"Why won't he leave?" he asked after a pause. There were plenty of beds in the infirmary that he was sure Clint could have used while he waited for Phil to wake.

"He got a fair few hours sleep in one of the other recovery rooms," Jac said tiredly, and Phil had to wonder just how long it had been since _she_ had gotten a fair few hours of sleep. "He woke up just after you came out of your surgery and demanded to see you. I swore up and down that you were going to be fine, but he still refused to leave. I think Barton needed to see that for himself that you would wake up."

" _You asked me to trust you and I did. I trusted you to_ stay _. To not leave me. So,_ please _Phil…_ stay _. Please stay with me. Okay?"_

Phil felt a contraction in his chest as Clint's words, thick and unsteady with raw, unfiltered emotion, came floating back to him. His gaze drifted back to the sleeping teenager at his bedside. This kid who had lost so much in his short lifetime. Who had been shuffled from place to place for almost his entire life. Who had never known stability.

Who had put his shaking hands to Phil's wounds and begged him not to leave him like so many others had.

"Jesus," Phil muttered, pained at the image.

Jac nodded at the sentiment. "Yeah. Which was why I figured it'd be better just to let him have what he wants for now." She looked at Phil, seeming to read his mind. She went on, gently. "Let him sleep for now, Phil. After everything, he could use the rest. Anything else can be dealt with later."

 _Anything else…_ such as the knowledge that your own brother was contracted to kill you? That your own brother not only took the shot… but tried to finish the job? How was that even possible to deal with?

"I will say this, though," Jac went on after a pause. "After all is said and done, this kid is gonna need an intervention. Despite being told over and over not only by me but also by Fury himself that it's not his fault, Barton is still drowning himself in guilt over the whole thing."

Phil sighed heavily, not at all surprised. "Yeah. That sounds about right," he admitted dismally.

"Okay, enough about Barton," Jac decided. "Let me get a look at you."

They lapsed into silence as Jac looked over Phil, checking his vitals and his wound. After she was satisfied that everything was as it should be this soon after surgery, she left him with strict instructions that he also needed to get some rest.

Phil knew that she was right, could feel the pull of exhaustion creeping up on him already. But every time he started to drift off, he would think he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, jerking back to full consciousness in order to check the sleeping teenager in the room anxiously.

In the end, he was pretty sure that he did drift off, at least briefly. Because suddenly he was blinking out of a heavy darkness, started by… well, he wasn't quite sure what.

His eyes immediately went to the side of the room that Clint had been sleeping on. It took him a beat longer than it should have to realize that the chair Clint had been sitting in was empty, the one he had been resting his feet in skewed as if it had been kicked out of the way. Phil's eyes shifted to take in Clint himself, suddenly standing next to the chair, his eyes wide, breathing labored and a shade paler than he had been before.

"Clint?" Phil ventured carefully, weary of the response he was going to get.

If Clint wasn't fully conscious and tried anything, there wasn't a damn thing that Phil would be able to do about it in his current state but watch. Subtly, he tried to shift his hand closer to the call button located on the rail of his bed.

For a long moment, Clint didn't move, simply stood there, blinking vacantly. Then, painfully slowly, his gaze shifted until he was looking right at Phil. It took another moment for recognition to spark.

"Phil?"

"I'm right here, kid," Phil assured him evenly. "You're in the infirmary, do you remember that?" After a moment, Clint nodded, though he still looked vaguely confused. He took a step forward, but Phil lifted a hand, urging him to pause. "Wait, wait." Clint paused and looked at him questioningly. "IV," Phil reminded him, pointing to the stand that he was still attached to.

Clint glanced over at it and a look of annoyance passed across his features. Phil could practically see him contemplating just taking himself off the thing. Thankfully, without any prompting from Phil, he simply reached out and grabbed the stand, pulling it closer to Phil's bed. Then he grabbed the chair that his feet had been resting on, pulling that closer as well so that he could drop down into it. Finally, he shifted a tired gaze to take in Phil critically.

"I'm okay," Phil answered the unasked question. "Few weeks of rest and I'll be good as new. It's not my first rodeo, it's an unfortunate occupational hazard."

He didn't tell Clint that while yes, he had taken a bullet before, this was the worst he had been hit. He didn't need that burden.

Clint nodded, but didn't seem particularly comforted. As the adrenaline rush from the sudden activity was wearing off, Phil felt the pull of unconsciousness once again. His body desperately needed rest after everything he had been through, but he wasn't ready to give in just yet.

He kept waiting for Clint to say something, anything. When he didn't, Phil took it upon himself to speak up again.

"Are you okay?" he asked carefully.

Clint blinked at him. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

It wasn't even that he was being self-deprecating. He sounded honestly perplexed by the idea that anyone was concerned about his wellbeing.

"I know that I'm the one laying in a hospital bed right now, but that doesn't diminish what you went through," Phil told him. "Physical pain isn't the only kind of pain that matters, Barton. I know you've been through a lot and I know this wasn't easy on you."

"Why'd you do it?" Clint blurted before Phil had even finished speaking, making Phil wonder if he had even been listening. "Why'd you take that bullet? Why didn't you just let it take me out?"

Phil had to paused and organize his thoughts.

"I don't blame you for hesitating," Phil finally said gently. "That was a situation that not even our best trained agents would have been prepared for. If I had known what we were walking into, I never would have asked you to shoot your own brother. No matter what he has done, that should never have been on you. Do you understand that?"

Clint sent an anxious glance at the closed door to the recovery room.

"Barney is my problem," he said lowly, his eyes still on the door. "I'll be the one to take care of him."

"It's going to be out of our hands, Clint," Phil told him calmly, though his words were suddenly coming out a bit off balanced. "It's a conflict of interest, there's no way that Fury will let you be the one to go after your own brother. It's not a responsibility that you need to bear, kid."

Clint dragged his gaze away from the door and looked at him appraisingly again. Phil knew he was losing the battle for consciousness, having been fighting the necessity for too long.

"You should get some rest, Phil," Clint said quietly.

There was something in this tone, something that was so terribly… off. But Phil's body had decided that he had put this off long enough and was apparently hitting the emergency shutoff. Phil blinked blearily. He desperately wanted to talk Clint through this, but he also knew that this wouldn't be solved with one barely coherent conversation.

But still, there was one thing that could not wait to be said.

"I took that bullet so that you wouldn't have to," Phil murmured even as he was drifting off. "And I'd take it again, given the chance. You're not in this alone anymore, kid."

Any reaction Clint had to his words was lost to him as Phil's eyes finally slid closed seemingly of their own accord and suddenly Phil knew no more.

* * *

As Phil drifted back toward consciousness once again, he immediately knew something was wrong. The first thing he was aware of was an uneasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. He tried not to think too much of it, after all with all the meds in his system post-surgery, it would have been more strange if he woke up feeling completely fine, right?

Even as he was blinking awake, he turned his head to one side and immediately looked to the chair beside his bed. He had woken briefly several times over the course of the past day and every time Clint had occupied that chair next to his bed. They hadn't gotten another chance to really talk as Phil's trips to consciousness were never very long, but it was still comforting to see the kid there. He took a long moment to realize the chair was empty. It took a longer moment to realize that someone else was in the room with him, standing by the window and looking out.

"It's good to see you awake, Phil," Fury said without looking away from the window.

"Thank you, sir," Phil said, even as his gaze continued to wander around the room, perplexed by Clint's sudden absence.

There was a heavy silence in the room for a minute before Fury heaved a sigh and turned to really look at Phil. His eye was full of sympathy for the man, and Phil had the sudden urge to tell him that he didn't want to know. Whatever Fury had to tell him, he could already tell that he didn't want to know it.

"I'm sorry, Phil," Fury finally said.

"Sorry for what?" Phil asked automatically. He wished he could take the words back as soon as they were out.

"He was long gone before we even knew what happened," Fury explained. "No one's even sure how he got out of the infirmary, let alone how he swiped his bow from the nurse's station without anyone noticing. We searched the entire base and came up with nothing. It wasn't until the techs went through all the security feeds that we figured it out. He stopped by the range, using your ID, and took about a dozen arrows. He disappeared off the feeds again until we found him on one of the outside feeds, jumping the perimeter fence. Pretty impressive that no one saw him considering our extra security out there since the shooting."

All this information crashed over him in a wave, but he still had a hard time really grasping what Fury was trying to tell him. Or maybe he simply didn't want to grasp what he was telling him.

"What are you saying?" Phil asked mechanically.

Fury's next words hit Phil like a sucker punch to the gut.

"Phil… He left. Barton's gone."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Dun, dun dun! This next part actually only came to me as I was writing this chapter… so I may need a little longer to flesh it out. But it's way better than what I was originally going to have happen, so hopefully it'll be worth it! Please don't forget to review and let me know what you think!

* * *

 _ **Chapter Nineteen Sneak Peek**_

"No, you don't get to do that," Clint practically shouted. The string on the bow came back another fraction. "You don't get to stand there and pretend like you have any say over me anymore."

"Okay, okay," Barney said slowly, seeming to sense the shift in Clint as he put his hands out a little further. For just a moment, fear flashed through his eyes, like he really believed that Clint would shoot him.

Clint wasn't too sure that he was wrong.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author Note:** Thank you for your patience everyone! This chapter actually took a very different turn than originally planned. I originally didn't have Clint tracking down Barney for another confrontation, this actually just came to me as I was working on the last chapter. And I'm so glad I managed to work this in because hopefully it'll give a better understanding on how complicated the relationship is between Clint and Barney.

As always, thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review the last chapter! **TheRedScreech** ; **Reagangirl** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; **Dean Miles Par** ; **thecrazybigpippin** ; **thebiangle** ; **ELOSHAZZY** ; **musicalishmonster** ; **XYZArtemis** ; and **Guest**! I very much appreciate all of you and you definitely motivate me to put my heart and soul into this story! I'm so glad you guys are all enjoying it so much!

And without further ado, we continue!

* * *

 **Chapter Nineteen**

As soon as Clint's feet hit the ground on the other side of the fence, he was running. He needed distance from the facility. He knew that he had slipped out under the radar, but as soon as they found him missing they were sure to send a team after him. He couldn't imagine that they'd be happy about him sneaking out, given the circumstances.

He headed straight out from the compound for about a mile before making a sharp turn. He threw in a couple zig zags for another mile before he finally left the ground. He scaled between two trees until he made it up to the sturdy branches where he could travel from tree to tree. He was able to move almost as quickly as he could at a dead run on the even ground below and it would make him almost impossible to track.

He was several miles out from the facility before he sensed it. He wasn't exactly sure how he knew. Maybe it was some leftover intuition from a connection they had long ago. Maybe it was just a gut instinct warning of impending danger.

But he knew that Barney was nearby.

He had known that his brother was bound to track him down again, but with his injury Clint hadn't expected it to be this soon. Barney must be desperate to already be on the move like this. So much for Clint having the jump on his brother for once.

It didn't take much. Barney wasn't terribly stealthy on a good day, and that day he was practically trampling through the underbrush. As Clint followed the noise, he was able to not only catch up, but get in front of Barney's path toward the SHIELD base. He drew his bow from around his shoulder as he dropped down from the trees, landing just a few feet in front of Barney, causing him to scramble to a stop.

"Jesus, Clint," he gasped as he put a hand to his chest and took a couple steadying breaths. "You scared the shit outta me."

Clint glared as he carefully shifted into a shooting stance, holding his bow loosely in his right hand. Barney eyed him a bit skeptically.

"You seem a little tense, baby bro."

Clint yanked an arrow from his makeshift quiver and in the next breath it was nocked and pointed at his brother's heart.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Barney yelped, putting his hands up defensively in front of him and taking a step back. Clint took a little bit a pleasure in seeing him wince and lower his right arm slightly. He could see the bulge of the bandages under his jacket and Clint wondered if he had actually gone to a hospital. "I'm unarmed."

Clint narrowed his eyes, looking him up and down for a moment, analyzing each shift in Barney's clothing.

"No, you're not."

Barney paused and then bobbed his head slightly in allowance. "Okay, so I'm not. But the gun is not in my hand. That has to count for something, right?"

Suddenly, Clint's gaze narrowed in on a very familiar strap slug over his brother's uninjured shoulder. Barney seemed to see him take notice, and carefully shrugged his shoulder so that the strap fell to the crook of his arm, revealing Clint's quiver.

"I had to swing back around to the apartment and I found this," Barney said. "Thought you might want it." He gave a knowing look that made Clint shift uncomfortably. "I know what it means to you."

He tossed it across the space between them. Clint tracked it as it landed at his feet before snapping his gaze back to his brother.

"It's empty," he pointed out flatly.

"Well, yeah," Barney said with a slight shrug, deliberately only using his left shoulder. "After what happened last time, I'm not dumb enough to give you back a full quiver." He paused, glancing at the nocked arrow still pointed at him. "But I see you restocked anyway."

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't put an arrow through your heart right now," Clint said lowly.

"C'mon, Clint," Barney said, smirking. "I shot you, you shot me… I'd say we're even."

"You _killed_ people, Barney. _Innocent_ people who had nothing to do with this."

"It was an accident," Barney said.

Clint shook his head, looking at his older brother in disgust. "You coulda come to me, you know. You coulda talked to me. We coulda figured this out together before anyone else had to get hurt."

Barney snorted derisively. "And you woulda listened to me after how we left things at the carnival?"

Clint glared. He honestly didn't know the answer to that question.

"What do you want?" he finally asked lowly.

"I want a truce," Barney said, his voice softening slightly.

It was Clint's turn to snort. "You want a truce _now,_ after you tried to kill me twice? Or do we count last time and call it three times?"

"Goddamnit, Clint," Barney snapped. "Just calm your shit and listen to me."

"No, you don't get to do that," Clint practically shouted. The string of the bow came back another fraction. "You don't get to stand there and pretend like you have _any_ say over me anymore."

"Okay, okay," Barney said slowly, seeming to sense the shift in Clint as he put his hands out a little further. For just a moment, fear flashed through his eyes, like he really believed that Clint would shoot him.

Clint wasn't too sure that he was wrong.

"Just humor me for five minutes," Barney implored carefully. When Clint didn't respond, he went on. "I've got a file in my jacket. Can I reach for it?"

Clint narrowed his eyes as he considered this carefully.

"Slowly," he finally said lowly, his gaze sharp and the grip on his bow tightening.

Slowly, Barney reached one hand into his jacket, carefully pulling out a file from an interior pocket. Once it was free of his jacket, he tossed it across the space between them, and it skidded on the ground in front of his feet, coming to a stop next to the quiver.

Clint didn't lower is bow.

"That's everything I know about the guy who hired me," Barney explained. "Should be enough for you to track him down and take him out."

Clint kept his eyes steadily on his brother.

"And what, you want me to fix this for you?" Clint spat.

"It's a win-win," Barney said with a tentative smirk. "I get out of this contract and you take out the guy trying to have you killed."

"And it's not something you're willing to do yourself." It wasn't a question.

Barney shifted uncomfortably. "Well, you know, it looks like you've got the resources..." He trailed off as he gestured vaguely back toward the SHIELD base.

"And you don't got the _stones_ ," Clint growled.

"What the hell do you want from me?" Barney snapped. "You get that I didn't know it was _you_ when I took the job, right? And I tried to get out of it when I found out it was you."

"By getting me arrested for people that you killed."

"Better arrested than killed, right? And then I got the hell out of the country. Figured it'd be someone else's problem then. And do you know what they did to me? The guy who hired me had me set up, got me dishonorably discharged! Then threatened to have me killed if I didn't finish this job! What was I supposed to do, this is ruining my fucking life, Clint!"

"So maybe you shouldn't have taken the job in the first place!"

"Yeah, because your hands are so squeaky clean, Clinty," Barney shot back sarcastically.

"And who's fucking fault is that?" Clint shouted, his voice cracking slightly.

"Like you shied away from it while you were on your own?" Barney challenged. "Face it, Clint, we're nothing if we're not our father's sons."

"I'm NOTHING like HIM!"

"Easy, kiddo…"

"I only killed people that I knew for a _fact_ were bad guys," Clint hissed, desperate to make the distinction.

"And here I am, handing you a bad guy," Barney said. "So, I don't see what the problem is."

"You tried to kill me, Barney!"

"We're getting no where here, kiddo," Barney said, huffing a sigh as he dropped his hands. "If you're gonna kill me, then do it. Otherwise, can I go now?"

There was a long, tense silence. It stretched out so long, that Barney began to shift uncomfortably, and there was just the briefest undercurrent of fear in his gaze that brought Clint just a small piece of satisfaction.

"Don't forget, I know you, Clint," Barney went on, and Clint narrowed his gaze. "I know that you always hit exactly where you meant to." He gestured to his bandaged shoulder. "You didn't go for the kill shot even though you could have. You could have even crippled my arm, but you didn't do that either. You don't want me dead. So, take this for what it is: a way out. You don't have to kill your own brother to make this right, you can go kill this mob boss who has it coming instead. Whaddya say?"

Very deliberately, Clint inhaled and then exhaled, steadying himself before he finally spoke.

"I want you to turn around," Clint said lowly, and he almost smiled at the way that Barney paled at the implication. He let his brother squirm for a moment before he went on. "I want you to turn around… and walk away. I want you to keep walking and I swear on our mother's grave, if you so much as glance over your shoulder, I will shoot you through the heart. This is the deal that I'm offering you for everything you did for me while we were kids. You walk out of my life and you give up killing people for money. If I hear so much as a rumor of you killing anybody or if I so much as get a glimpse of you ever again, I will take you down _hard_. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah, okay, okay, that seems fair," Barney said unsteadily, already taking a step backwards.

But before he turned, he met Clint's gaze. He made a fist with his right hand and put it to his heart, moving it in a circle. He pointed to himself, then moved his hand under his chin, sweeping his thumb outward along the underside of his chin and shaking his head slightly. Then he put his flat hand horizontally in front of his mouth and moved it up next to his head, making a fist with his thumb up as his hand moved. Finally, he held both hands parallel in front of him, moving them downward.

It had been a long time since anyone had communicated in sign language to him. In fact, Barney was the only one who ever had. But the words came back to him as naturally as if Barney were speaking out loud.

"Sorry I am not a better person."

Then, Barney turned, and he walked away. Clint kept his arrow steadily trained on his brother until he was completely out of sight several minutes later. When Clint finally slowly released the tension on the bow string, his arms were shaking, the fingers on his left hand were bleeding, and there was already a nasty blister forming on his right palm.

He could see all these things, but strangely he couldn't feel any of them.

Suddenly he was flinging his bow away from him with a shout of frustration as he sunk to his knees. He reached out and grabbed the quiver, his hands expertly finding the hidden compartment on the inside of the lining, about halfway down. He practically sobbed in relief as he found the very worn piece of paper still safely tucked away.

He sat back, taking a few minutes just to breathe.

It wasn't how he thought that was going to go. After everything that had happened, when he left the SHIELD base he had expected to track Barney down and take him out. He was dangerous. He was a threat. He was… his brother. And when it came down to it… Clint just couldn't kill his own brother.

But maybe there was still a way that he could make this right. He carefully replaced the small slip of paper into his hidden compartment before he turned his attention to the file that Barney had left. Flipping it open, it surprisingly contained exactly what Barney had promised that it would.

There were printed screenshots of text conversations from a cell phone about the contract. A price was offered, and Barney accepted without knowing anything other than a general location of the target. Updates on the location of the target were exchanged until Barney confirmed that he was in position and ready to take the shot. Then there was a photo of Clint that was clearly taken from a security camera. Clint looked at the timestamps on the text messages. Five minutes after the photo had come through, Barney had sent a text saying that the target was down.

Clint stared at that for a long time. Barney had left out that piece of information. There was no way that he had actually thought Clint was down. It was the final text message sent from Barney, who apparently hadn't responded to several attempts to set up an exchange of payment. Barney had apparently immediately gone on the run and the lie about the job being complete had bought them both some time.

Did he dare hope that Barney had missed that initial shot on purpose? That somewhere deep down, he still felt some sort of connection to his younger brother? Then perhaps he only took the second shot out of desperation after he was kicked out of the military, which was why he had gone through the effort of getting the poisoned bullets. Maybe he knew that he wouldn't be able to bring himself to take a killing shot.

Clint shook off the thought. That didn't matter now. He shuffled through the rest of the papers in the file. There was a mug shot and police records for a man named Tomás Diaz. For a moment, the name and the face meant absolutely nothing to Clint. But then as he read the charges – selling illegal weapons in downtown Chicago – it came back to him.

Clint had been impulsive and sloppy when he had first left the carnival. Chicago had been the first major city that Clint had come across after leaving Carson's, looking to try and do something good in the world. He had talked to people who lived on the rough side of town in order to find out who was harming the neighborhood. He had taken out several low-level weapons dealers before taking off for another city to repeat the process.

After everything he had been through, killing bad guys that the police couldn't seem to get off the streets was the only thing that seemed to lighten the weight on his soul.

Apparently, Tomás Diaz had been the head of that gang of arms dealers in Chicago. In his file, it listed known members of the gang, and even listed the ones who had been killed along with cause of death. Clint found the group of names that had "arrow to the heart" listed as the cause of death. One name in particular jumped out at him: Marco Diaz.

Well, that explained why Tomás was still holding a grudge so many years later even though Clint hadn't made much of a dent in his actual business. Marco Diaz was listed as Tomás' brother.

Clint went through the rest of the information in the file and was surprised to find just how much information Barney had dug up on Diaz. He had several home addresses listed and a rough estimate of how often he rotated between them, several of his daily habits and places that he frequented, printed receipts from sketchy restaurants where he would do business, several screenshots of the man from security cameras. All this was organized and printed with several handwritten notes added for more clarity. Barney hadn't been exaggerating, it was everything that Clint needed to track the man down.

For a moment, Clint was actually impressed by the amount of research Barney had done on the man who hired him. But then he noticed the date stamped on the bottom of the printouts were from the day before. Barney had only done this research in an attempt to save his own ass.

Clint sighed heavily to himself. Typical.

He went through the file thoroughly three more times, carefully committing all the important points to memory. By the time he was done, the sun was setting, and he knew that he should hunker down for the night.

Of course, hunker "down" was simply an ironic way that Clint referred to climbing a tree. He found a few sturdy branches with an almost solid leaf covering high up in a nearby tree that he was able to settle onto for the night. He dozed several times but never really fell asleep. In fact, he was wide awake just after midnight when he saw a team of four SHIELD agents with rifles drawn and night vision goggles pass right underneath him, completely oblivious to his presence.

It took Clint three days to travel from upstate New York to Chicago by stowing away on several industrial railway cars. With the help of Barney's information, it only took Clint a day to track down Tomás Diaz. He took the extra time to talk to some people around the neighborhood that Diaz's gang worked in order to confirm what he already knew: that Diaz distributed dangerous weapons without any care to the consequences of his actions.

It was almost too easy. Clint set up on the roof of a building across the street from the residence Diaz was currently using. All the man had to do was step out of the door and Clint sent an arrow tearing through the man's chest. Then he was gone before anybody even thought to look for him.

Just like every other time Clint had taken a life, he felt distinctly numb as he did it. He logically knew the weight of what he had done, but he just couldn't feel it. He never did. He had been taught early on to smother any feelings that went along with taking the life of another human being. It was a lesson that was drilled in to him by someone he thought he could trust. Someone he didn't realize was using him and controlling him. And it was proving to be a difficult lesson to shake off.

After the deed was done, Clint honestly wasn't sure what his next move was. Did he just continue on like he had before Phil Coulson had walked into his life? Something about that idea just made him feel… _restless_ was the closest word he could think of to describe the feeling.

He hopped his first train just telling himself that he needed to get out of Chicago. He hopped the second one, telling himself that the more distance he put between himself and the man he had just killed the better. It wasn't until the third train that he really admitted to himself where he was going. He bailed on the train mid-route in upstate New York. Then he trudged through the woods, memory taking him back in the direction of the SHIELD base.

It had been a week since he had left, and he hadn't slept more than an hour or two at a time over the course of that week. So, as he approached the compound, he found that he had no energy to even attempt to reenter the facility under the radar. Instead, he found himself simply walking up to the front gate with aching feet and exhaustion seeping down to his bones.

"Stop, hands where I can see them!"

Carefully, Clint lifted his gaze to meet the agent who stood on the other side of the gate, a gun trained between the metal links, pointed right at him. Clint considered him for a long moment before he slowly raised his hands to hover on either side of his head, calmly showing that both were safely empty.

"On your knees, get on the ground!"

Clint cocked an eyebrow. That seemed a bit excessive.

"I'm here to see Director Fury," Clint said instead, making no move to comply.

The agent cocked the gun threateningly. "I'm not gonna tell you again, punk, on your knees!"

Clint felt his shoulders drop. He was so damn tired.

"Okay, fine," he sighed as he slowly lowered himself down to his knees, careful to his hands up and away from his bow. It'd be a pain if he came all this way only to get shot again. He took a moment to settle himself back on his heels before he spoke again. "Better? Now can you tell Director Fury that Clint Barton wants to talk to him?"

"Stay right there," the man growled.

He kept his gun steadily trained on him as he carefully opened the gate with one hand. Clint thought he'd lead him inside, but instead the man approached him and stripped him of his bow and quiver before ordering him to lay face down in the dirt so that he could cuff him. Clint grudgingly followed the instructions, because if he was being honest with himself he really couldn't blame them for treating him like a criminal at this point.

He allowed himself to be roughly led back into the compound. As he was taken to the detention wing, he watched as his bow and quiver were checked in and secured into weapons lockers. He put up no complaints as he was deposited in a standard cell in the wing with none of the furnishings he had been allowed before. He had been gone a week, he figured that cell had probably been cleaned out by now.

He also suspected that he had worn out his welcome with all the trouble he had caused.

He did grumble a bit at being left with the handcuffs still securing his hands behind him. As he sat on the floor at the far side of the cell, he contorted himself to thread his hands underneath him so at least his hands were more comfortably in front of him. He could have popped the cuffs off if he had wanted to, but he didn't want to push his luck.

Resting his cuffed hands on his knees and leaning his head up against the wall behind him, he settled in to wait.

It was an hour later before the door to the cell scrapped open once again.

"You know, when a low-level perimeter guard told me he had arrested a kid calling himself Clint Barton at the front gate, I honestly thought he was fucking with me."

Clint shifted his gaze just as Fury pulled the door firmly shut behind him, the electronic locking mechanism shifting into place. For a moment there was only silence as the two sized each other up.

"How's Phil doing?" It honestly wasn't what he thought the first thing he was going to say to the Director would be, but somehow it was the first thing that popped out of Clint's mouth.

Fury eyed him wearily for a moment.

"Better," he finally said, his tone carefully neutral. "He's on the mend. He's even been up and about a fair amount the past couple days."

Clint nodded, unexpectedly relieved at this news. He had waited until he was sure that Phil was stable before he had left, but it was still comforting to hear that nothing unexpected had gone wrong in his absence. He posed his next question carefully, his voice thin and his tone empty. He wasn't even sure what kind of answer he was really hoping for.

"You tell him I'm back?"

Fury shook his head. "I wanted to see what your intentions were before I burdened him. After all, he took it pretty hard the first time you left. If this is just a brief visit, I see no reason to make him go through that again."

Yeah, that made sense, Clint thought dismally to himself as he leaned his head back against the wall behind him.

"So, why don't we get right to it, Barton," Fury went on after a pause. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the door behind him, leveling Clint with a hard, calculating glare. "Why are you here?"

It was a damn good question. One that Clint still wasn't exactly sure of himself.

"I was just… hoping the offer to let me crash here 'till I turn eighteen was still good," Clint mumbled with a shrug.

Fury waited as if he were hoping for more. But Clint was silent.

"You left," Fury finally prompted.

"I was told that I wasn't actually a prisoner here," Clint pointed out defensively. "That I could leave anytime I wanted. I just took advantage of that."

"If that's really what you were doing, you wouldn't have snuck out like a common criminal," Fury countered, not at all swayed.

"If I had gone to you about it, then you would have stuck me in state custody which I would have had to run from," Clint said matter-of-factly with a shrug. "I was just trying to skip the middle man."

"Then why are you back here?" Fury pressed.

Clint took a deep breath. "I guess… it's nice having a roof over my head." His voice was thin, and he knew there was absolutely nothing convincing about him right now. He hadn't felt this painfully young in years.

Fury stared at him for a long moment… but Clint couldn't hold his gaze. After the past week and a half, he just felt so tired and so small.

"You better figure out what it is you really want out of this life, Barton," Fury finally said firmly. "And you better do it soon, before it's too late."

Fury turned and waved up at the camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. The electronic lock whirred, and he pulled the door open, walking out and letting it slam shut behind him, the locks immediately reengaging.

There was a ringing silence left in his absence.

"What I want usually doesn't matter much, sir," Clint said quietly to the empty room.

Clint felt restless as he sat there, waiting for what would happen next. Would they just leave him there? Would Fury come back to throw him out? Would they even let him leave, knowing what he knew about their organization?

Sleep deprivation from the past week was catching up with him, but even as he closed his eyes, he was too troubled to actually fall asleep. Still, as he heard the door scrape open a while later, he was slow to react to the noise. He heard the door clicking shut before he finally dragged his eyes open, blinking a few times before the scene in front of him came into focus. It took an extra moment to really comprehend what he was seeing, since he really hadn't expected Phil to be standing there, looking him over critically.

In the heavy silence, Clint took the opportunity to return the favor as he studied Phil's appearance. He was standing under his own power, and somehow that was surprising to Clint even though Fury had told him he had been up and about. He was favoring his right side in general though, a sign that there was still pain from his wound on his left. He was pale, but not sickly so. His features were worn, but not as if he were in significant pain at the moment, more like he was incredibly tired.

"I didn't expect you to come back," Phil finally stated.

Clint swallowed. "I didn't either," he admitted.

Phil nodded, looking like Clint had answered some unasked question. Finally, he shuffled forward, moving a bit stiffly as he crossed the room. Clint only watched. He felt like he should stand when he approached him, but he just didn't have the energy. Phil held something out to him and Clint was slow to comprehend that it was a key. He was even slower to comprehend that it was a key to the handcuffs that were still secured around his wrists.

Clint mechanically took the key and unlocked the cuffs. Then he handed the handcuffs and the key back to Phil and the man tucked them into his pocket.

He expected Phil to leave. But instead, he slowly – and somewhat painfully – lowered himself down to sit on the floor next to Clint. By the time he was settled, he was leaning heavily up against the wall behind him, trying to subtly catch his breath without making it obvious how much effort that had taken. Clint could sympathize. He was several weeks further along in the healing process from his own bullet wound, but if he moved wrong he could feel the protest in his still healing muscles.

For several long minutes, they were silent. Clint had expecting questioning, lecturing, maybe yelling. He hadn't expected this companionable silence.

"I'm sorry," Clint finally felt compelled to say, studiously studying his hands resting on top of his knees.

"For what?" Phil asked patiently as if it were any old day.

"For not explaining to you why I had to go," Clint said, still decidedly not looking at the man sitting next to him. He wouldn't apologize for leaving, but he would apologize for this. "I just… didn't want to cause any more problems than I already had. I figured it'd be easier if I just disappeared."

"It wasn't." The tone in Phil's voice had Clint turning his head to look at him. "You matter here, Clint. You can't just disappear and expect that to not make any waves."

There was a pause as Clint struggled to figure out what to say to that. But Phil went on before he could think of anything.

"You didn't tell Fury about Barney."

Clint swallowed thickly, looking away. "No, I didn't." He paused and had to gather his will to ask his next question. "Did you? Tell him?"

"No," Phil said evenly. "After Fury told me that you hadn't been able to identify the guy, I figured you had a good reason for withholding that information." But he didn't sound completely convinced. He took a breath before he went on. "So, did you find him?"

Of course Phil would know where he had gone without him having to tell him.

"Yes," Clint confirmed flatly. There was a long, painful pause. Bless Phil, he didn't ask. But Clint still felt compelled to tell him, "I didn't kill him."

Phil let out a sigh, and Clint wasn't real sure if it was a sigh of relief or disappointment.

"What's that?"

For a moment, Clint had no idea what he was talking about. It wasn't until he glanced over at Phil and followed his gaze that he even realized what he was doing. He was rubbing at the scabs on his left fingers with the thumb of his other hand, causing one of them to open up again and ooze blood. He had been doing that a lot over the past week without realizing it, which was why the wounds weren't healing well. That, and they had all but opened up again when he had taken out Diaz just a few days ago.

"It's from holding my bow drawn too long when I confronted Barney," Clint told him, his tone clinical. He turned his hand to hide the marks before he determinedly went on with what he thought was more important information. "I didn't kill Barney... but I did fix the problem. I made a deal with him, he told me who hired him and in exchange he would disappear. I told him if I ever heard of him hurting anyone ever again, I'd come after him myself." Clint turned his gaze to Phil, willing the man to see how serious he took that promise. "And I will."

Phil was quiet for a painful amount of time. Clint wished he would say something. Did he believe him? Did he think he was strong enough to do what was necessary if it came down to it? Did this make up for the demons that had followed him here?

Finally, Phil took a breath.

"So, you found out who hired him," Phil said, not quite looking at him.

"Tomás Diaz," Clint told him immediately. "He runs a gang of arms dealers up in Chicago. Apparently, I ticked him off when I took out a fair number of his guys a few years ago, one of which I guess was his brother. I wasn't as careful as I should have been when I first left the carnival and he managed to get my image off some security camera. When he tracked me down when I was in Chicago again a few months ago, he put out the contract and Barney happened to pick it up while he was on leave from the military."

Clint knew that he was babbling, but he just couldn't stop.

"I took care of him. That's why I was gone for so long, I went back to Chicago and took him out. No one else was around to ID me and I got out clean. I fixed this, Phil. I fixed it."

There was just a hint of the desperate pleading that Clint felt in his tone, quietly begging Phil to forgive him for getting him shot. He knew that he had no chance of staying here with SHIELD after he turned eighteen – if they even let him stay that long – but for some reason he desperately wanted Phil to know that he had tried to make this right.

Maybe that's was the real reason he came back here.

"Fury isn't just going to let Barney go," Phil said gently. Clint squeezed his eyes shut as he leaned his head back against the wall behind him. "Not after he found and fired on this base."

"Barney's not really a bad guy, Phil," Clint found himself saying, though his tone was hollow

"Clint, look at me." He opened his eyes and looked wearily over at the man sitting next to him. "He tried to _kill_ you. Knowing no other information about him, that alone makes him a bad guy. Do you understand that?"

Clint inhaled slowly, meeting Phil's gaze calmly.

"He wasn't always a bad guy," he corrected quietly but evenly.

And maybe that was the first time he had really admitted that, even after everything that had happened.

Phil skeptical look had Clint continuing. "When I… when I first lost my hearing, Barney was the only one who learned sign language with me. He was the only one who made an effort to really communicate with me. And when we were put into the system, Barney stuck by me, even when he didn't have to, even when it wouldn't have been easier for him not to." Clint took a deep breath. "Barney has changed. I understand that, I do. But I still felt like I owed him this for putting up with me for as long as he did."

Phil features immediately softened as he let out a heavily sigh. He ran a hand over his face and seemed to consider something carefully before he spoke again.

"I have no authority to call Fury off his manhunt for the person who fired on the base," he said, his tone measured. "But I'm also not going to out Barney. For now, anyway." He was careful to meet Clint's gaze as he went on. "But this is the only pass I will allow him, and its not only for your sake but also because someone much more dangerous was eliminated with the use of his information. I know for a fact that we had an entire file on Tomás Diaz and it was only a matter of time and available resources before a hit was ordered on him. But one step out of line, so much as a parking ticket, and we _have_ to bring Barney in. Understood?"

Clint nodded silently. That was fair.

"Okay," Phil sighed with a note of finality. "Now help me up. I need to get back to the infirmary before they come looking for me."

Clint was already scrambling to his feet. He carefully helped Phil to his feet, taking note of the way the man grimaced. It was then that Clint realized that he really shouldn't have left the infirmary just yet.

Phil shuffled over to the door and waved to the camera. As the door buzzed, he pulled it open with a soft groan. But he didn't move to leave and instead looked back at Clint questioningly, who hadn't moved from the back of the cell.

"You coming?"

"What?" Clint said, confused.

"I'm only a week out of surgery, Clint," Phil said as if that should explain everything. "I need you to make sure I actually make it back to the infirmary. Plus, I want Jac to take a look at your hand."

"You… you want me to come with you?" Clint said unsurely.

Somehow, he hadn't expected to be let out of this cell so easily.

"Let's go, Barton, I'm overdue for pain meds," Phil said impatiently, suddenly sounding a bit short of breath.

That got Clint moving.

Phil signed Clint out of the detention wing just as he had countless times before. As the two moved through the corridors, Phil did stumble a few times, needing Clint to steady him. They finally made it back to the infirmary, Phil leading Clint straight passed the intake desk and back to a private recovery room.

"I ought to strap you down after that stunt."

Clint turned just as Dr. Henricks was storming into the room.

"Are you talking to me or him?" Phil asked wearily as he was settling himself back in bed.

Dr. Hendricks sent a hard look at Clint before shifting her attention back to Phil.

"Both of you, really. Phil, when I told you that moving around a little on your own was okay, I meant within the infirmary and still attached to that IV."

"My mistake," Phil said, but he didn't sound the least bit repentant.

"And _you_." She whirled on Clint so quickly that he took a startled step back. "After everything we went through to keep you alive, and you just leave without a word to anyone? That's really how you repay us?"

Clint could only stare at her blankly. He had expected Phil to be upset when he left. He expected Fury to be angry for not leaving on his terms. But Dr. Hendricks? He hardly expected her to notice that he was gone. She only helped him because that was her job… right?

"Clint's got some cuts on his hand from his bow that don't look like they're healing well," Phil spoke up. "I was hoping that you could take a look."

Dr. Henricks sighed heavily. "Of course, he does." But then she turned back to Phil instead. "But I need to get you situated first."

Clint stood awkwardly by the far wall and watched as Dr. Hendricks reattached Phil's IVs and then checked his vitals. Once she was assured that everything was as it should be despite Phil's unscheduled walk across the base, she turned back to Clint.

"Let's see them."

Without complaint, Clint held out his left hand. Dr. Hendricks paused, taking a breath before she reached for him with more gentleness than he had expected.

"Have you cleaned these at all?" Dr. Hendricks questioned at she looked at the wounds on his fingers.

Clint shook his head. Dr. Hendricks frowned.

"They look mildly infected," she told him. "Honestly, I'm surprised it's not worse since you didn't bother to take care of yourself. I'll clean and bandage them, and it should be fine. Take a seat."

Out of habit more than anything, Clint waited until she had left the room before allowing himself to take the seat. He was blinking heavily by the time she came back, only half listening as she tended to the wounds.

"Is there any chance at all I could talk you into taking a bed in the next recovery room over and getting some rest?" Dr. Hendricks asked without much hope.

"I'm fine here," Clint said flatly

"I figured," Dr. Hendricks admitted. She turned to leave, but then hesitated, glancing back at him. "Please don't disappear on us again, Barton. We were really worried about you."

Before Clint could even begin to process that, she was gone.

Deciding that it was something he could ponder when he wasn't so tired he could no longer see straight, he settled back in his chair, propping a foot up on the edge of Phil's bed.

He had felt off balance since he left the base a week ago. He had thought it had been because of the overwhelming situation hanging over him, but now he wondered if that had really been it. Because sitting here, with Phil watching over him, Clint finally felt like he was able to relax for the first time since leaving the base. It was only minutes before his head was lolling to the side, his eyelids weighing down.

And, for the first time in a week, Clint finally drifted off into a deep, restful sleep.

* * *

 **Author Note:** Alright, so there we go! Hopefully it makes a little more sense why despite everything Clint still couldn't bring himself to kill Barney and even went so far as to let him go. We'll also get a little more into Clint's reasoning in the next chapter, which will have A LOT of answers about the holes we still have in Clint's past! Stay tuned! And if you are so inclined, I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter!

* * *

 _ **Chapter Twenty Sneak Peek**_

He looked at Phil thoughtfully. "You really think SHIELD could fix me?"

Phil almost answered before he realized that something was terribly wrong with the way Clint had worded the question. He hadn't asked if SHIELD could fix his hearing or his ears… he had asked if SHIELD could fix _him_. As if he as a person were a broken thing in need of repair.

Phil just couldn't let that go.

"In regard to your _hearing_ , we won't know anything until we get a doctor to take a look," Phil told him. "In regard to _you_ … you don't need fixing because you are not broken."


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note:** Well hello everybody. I feel like it's been a while, but I guess it hasn't been all that long thankfully. It has actually been a rough couple weeks for me with a hospital stay after a severe allergic reaction a couple weeks ago and now new medications to deal with some long time anxiety problems I've been having. Not fun times. But hopefully better days are ahead?

Anyway, it's a relief to get back to this because writing is a big outlet for me. This was originally supposed to be the final chapter, but it was getting to be a little excessive in word count. So, there will be one more chapter after this, but it will much shorter, more of an epilogue length rather than full chapter. And hopefully if all goes well (and my anxiety medicine will stop making me horribly sick!) I'll be able to finish that up and get it posted in the next couple days!

As always, shout outs to those who reviewed the last chapter! **Reagangirl** ; **Jeskifire** ; **LisaG16** ; **LEMarauder** ; **ELOSHAZZY** ; **reagangirl** ; **Guest** ; **XYZArtemis** ; **TheRedScreech** ; **thebiangle** ; **Katie MacAlpine** ; **thecrazybigpippin** ; and **musicalishmonster**! You guys are all awesome! Your kinds words were especially appreciated in the past couple weeks!

And since I didn't get a chance to message everyone individually, extra thank you to anyone who mentioned the sign language in the last chapter in their review! I was nervous to put that bit in because I hadn't had a chance to do as much research into sign language as I'd like, so I'm glad that it still had the intended impact!

Just a note, the first little bit of this chapter takes place right before Phil's chat with Clint in the detention wing from the last chapter, and then after the break it jumps to two days after that talk. Hopefully that's not too confusing.

Alright, I'm done rambling. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty**

Phil didn't do sitting around well. And after being mostly confined to a hospital bed for a week, he was beginning to go a bit stir crazy and he was starting to feel real sympathy for Clint's fidgety habits. Of course, that thought wasn't helping him put that kid out of his head.

The first day after Fury told him that Clint had left, although he wasn't happy that the kid had gone off on his own, Phil had felt sure that he would come back. He figured he had needed to let off some steam after everything that had happened and would be back after he cooled down and got some space from the situation.

It was three days in and out of a drug induced unconsciousness before he really began to worry. Clearly this was more than just a walk around to get his head in order. And that was when it really hit Phil, and he blamed the painkillers still in his system that it took him that long to come to the conclusion.

" _Barney is my problem. I'll be the one to take care of him."_

Clint was going after Barney. And if he wasn't back yet…

Phil had been there when Clint had come face to face with his older brother for the first time in years. He could still remember the look on the kid's face. And he knew without a doubt, that while Clint might think he could take out his own brother, when it came down to it chances were he wouldn't actually be able to bring himself to take that shot.

But Barney would.

Upon this revelation, Phil had gone nearly into hysterics. He had nearly broken the call button before a nurse came running in and he tried to demand that someone bring Fury down here but thinking back he didn't think he had been terribly coherent. He ended up being sedated, the infirmary staff fearing that his vitals were climbing too rapidly.

He had woken hours later to a concerned and confused Jac. But, he wasn't able to immediately pinpoint the cause of his anxiety with the painkillers fogging his brain. And by the time it did come trickling back to him, he realized there wasn't really anything to be done. What could he really do that they weren't doing already? Fury had teams out in the vicinity for days trying to track Barton down without one trace of the kid.

And it was then that he started to realize that Clint might really be gone.

So, when Fury entered his recovery room a week after Clint had disappeared, Phil was trying his best to put the kid out of his head. The priority had shifted back to tracking down the person who had fired on their base. Phil had given Fury a rough description of Barney Barton… but, upon hearing Fury tell him that Clint hadn't been able to identify the man they had tracked down before he disappeared, Phil hadn't gone so far as to actually give his name. He couldn't really put his finger on why and he knew eventually he'd probably confess the entire story to Fury. But for now, still recovering from a serious gunshot wound and surgery, Phil was content to just let things play out without him.

"Sir, any updates?" Phil asked.

Fury wasn't exactly one to just stop by for a bedside vigil, so Phil figured there had to be news with the investigation. But the hope in that question had faded days ago.

"It's a funny thing," Fury said conversationally. "I got a call about a potential hostile who was arrested earlier approaching the front gate of the perimeter fence."

Phil arched an eyebrow, more confused than anything. "How is that funny?"

"It was Clint Barton."

Phil was suddenly pushing himself up off the incline of the bed, immediately gasping in pain that the motion caused.

"What?!"

"Easy, Phil," Fury said, putting out a calming hand.

Phil leaned back against the bed out of necessity, but he felt dizzy as he tried to get his head around this sudden turn of events.

"Clint's here?" Phil gasped. "Where is he, is he okay?"

"Yes, a perimeter guard brought him in," Fury confirmed calmly. "He's down in the detention wing and seems overall no worse for the wear."

For a minute, all Phil could do was stare, unable to wrap his head around the idea.

"He… he came back?" Phil said thinly, somehow unable to get passed that idea.

"He did," Fury confirmed.

"But… why?"

Clint had been gone for a week. Phil figured the only two options were that either Barney finally completed his contract or Clint had decided he was better off on his own.

"I don't think even Barton knows the answer to that question," Fury said.

Something in his tone made Phil look up at him.

"You talked to him?" Phil asked.

"I felt the need to have a conversation with him, given the circumstances," Fury said.

"How did that go?" Phil asked.

"It took all of five minutes to see how lost that kid is," Fury said with a frown. Then he leveled his gaze on Phil. "I know there's something about what happened that he's not owning up to." He paused, as if giving Phil a chance to speak. Phil met his gaze but remained silent. "He has the potential to be an exceptional asset, Phil. But he's going to have to deal with whatever baggage he's dragging around."

"And you're still willing to give him a shot?" Phil asked carefully.

There was a long pause before Fury finally spoke.

"By now, you know that I trust your instincts, Phil," he said evenly. "When the times comes, I'll trust you to make that call."

Phil nodded. It was a lot of responsibility, but it was a relief that after everything it was a responsibility that still lay with him.

"He'll have to learn to fall in line if he goes into the training program," Fury went on. "The only reason that I'm not completely disqualifying him due to that stunt he just pulled is because he technically has no ties here yet. But if you decide that he's up to recruitment, he'll have to handle the fact that he'll need to do what he's told."

"I understand that, sir," Phil assured him. "And I'll make sure he understands that as well."

"Good," Fury said with a nod. "Now, get some rest, Phil. Barton isn't going anywhere. I'll make arrangements to have him brought up here when you feel up to it."

"Thank you, sir," Phil said.

After Fury left, it took Phil all of twenty minutes to decide to take matters into his own hands. Fury wasn't outright hostile toward Barton, but it was clear there was a measure of trust that had been lost when Clint had taken off. He knew that if he left it to Fury, Clint would be brought up here in full restraints. He wouldn't blame the Director for taking the precaution, but it wouldn't make the conversation he needed to have with the kid any easier.

He slowly levered himself up into a sitting position before he carefully removed the IVs that he was still attached to. He was suddenly glad that he had graduated from a hospital gown to sweatpants and a t-shirt just the day before. He took a couple laps around the room to be sure that he was steady, before he headed out of the infirmary.

XxXxX

"You know, there's plenty of beds out there where you could get some real rest," Phil pointed out… again.

Phil had been watching Clint sleep in the chair next to his bed on and off over the past two days, and it was starting to make him sore just watching him try and get comfortable. He felt guilty taking up the one bed in the room, but he knew he wouldn't last very long in a chair just yet. He had the top of the bed tilted up and was leaning heavily back against it.

"You really think Fury would allow that?" Clint snorted.

Phil sighed. Fury had shown up just a few hours after Phil had brought Clint back to the infirmary, admittedly angry about Phil's impromptu trip down to the detention wing. The ensuing "conversation" had woken Clint out of a dead sleep, his eyes painfully fearful as he jerked up out of the chair.

Fury had grudgingly left after that, stating that they'd finish their conversation later.

"Director Fury is not angry that I brought you up from the detention wing," Phil clarified. "He's angry that I didn't run it through the correct channels first. It complicates the paperwork. Not to mention, I don't think he was very happy about me going against doctor's orders by walking down there myself."

"Then… why did you do it?" Clint asked.

"The Director often gets lost in the big picture," Phil said diplomatically. "He sometimes forgets to consider the smaller details. And it's my job to remind him of those things. I just took a practical approach to it this time." He gave the kid a knowing smirk.

Clint nodded, but he was frowning. When he made no effort to respond to that, Phil decided to try one last time.

"No one would bother you if you decided to get some rest out there, Jac would make sure of that," Phil assured him. "I know Jac said that we don't have any other recovery rooms available at the moment, but there are plenty of beds out in main area that you could utilize."

Predictably, Clint shook his head. He paused, seeming to debate for a moment before he spoke.

"It gets pretty loud out there sometimes," he mumbled, as he dropped his foot off of the chair opposite him and leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. "It's quieter in here, you know? Easier to hear."

Phil nodded, knowingly. He felt impressed and relieved that Clint was still able to manage be so open with him after everything that had happened. He considered his next words carefully. It had been something he had been meaning to talk with Clint about for a while now, but there had never been time. Now seemed as good a time as any.

"You know I'm going to have to tell a few people about that, about your hearing issues," he said gently, watching Clint carefully for his reaction. The kid seemed to collapse in on himself a bit at this news. Phil went on quickly, hoping to soften the blow. "At least Jac and Fury, for now. But as we get you into the program, we'll have to let trainers know too. And eventually I'd like to get tech working on specialized comm devices that could magnify—"

"What?" Clint interrupted, glancing up at Phil with a look of utter confusion.

"Oh," Phil said slowly, suddenly realizing how far ahead of himself he was.

With Clint's return to the base, Phil had assumed that he was still at least considering the idea of being recruited by SHIELD. It hadn't taken much for Phil to decide that Clint was still worth recruiting despite everything that had happened. One conversation with him in the detention wing had told Phil everything that he needed to know. This kid was just so hopelessly lost in his life and he was desperately trying to fix the whole world. It was a noble endeavor, but if he continued down the path as he had been, it was going to get him killed. SHIELD could train him and provide him with the resources he needed to do some real good in this world. He had been thriving here before Barney had shown up, and Phil felt confident that he could get him back on that track.

But the reality of the situation was suddenly crashing down on Phil. Clint still had the option to turn down the offer when he turned eighteen, which was only a week away at this point. Phil thought he had gotten the idea that Clint would accept the offer when it was extended to him… but now looking at the kid's expression, Phil had a sinking suspicious that he had wildly misread the situation.

"I mean, if you _want_ to join SHIELD, of course," he quickly tried to backtrack. "The decision is still ultimately up to you when you turn eighteen."

But Clint didn't look any less confused with this clarification.

"Wait, but…" He trailed off, clearly struggling to form a coherent thought. He took a deep breath and looked at Phil carefully as he strung together his completed thought. "So… you're still gonna offer me the job?"

It was Phil's turn to shoot the kid a confused look.

"Well yeah, of course I am. Why wouldn't I? I know there was a hiccup when you left, but you made the decision to come back, and that speaks volumes. If you decide you can commit to this organization, then there's no reason you can't be successful here."

"Yeah, but…" Clint said slowly. "I just… I figured after you found out…"

"Found out what?" Phil asked when Clint seemed to be struggling to find the words. "About your brother? About the people out to get you? That's kind of par for the course in this organization, kid. If you didn't have people out for you before you joined, you sure would have after."

Clint stared at Phil in disbelief for a moment, as if he couldn't believe that Phil wasn't getting what he was talking about.

"No," he said, shaking his head for emphasis. "No, not that." He took a deep breath, steeling himself before he finally plowed forward. "I figured once you found out about my hearing loss, the offer would be off the table."

Out of everything that Phil would have guessed Clint thought disqualified him from recruitment, Phil hadn't placed his hearing loss anywhere near the top of the list. But suddenly, all the pieces to that particular puzzle came crashing into place. This was why Clint had been so desperate to hide his hearing loss and so reluctant to admit it even when it was getting in the way of his communication with the people around him.

"Really?" Phil couldn't help but ask in his surprise. "Why would you think that?"

Clint studied him for a moment, as if trying to figure out if he was being serious.

"Because… because I can't do this job with my hearing loss," he finally said as if that fact should have been obvious.

"Clint, you _just_ did this job several times over in the past couple weeks, your hearing loss was a non-factor," Phil pointed out, surprised that Clint hadn't put that together himself. "In fact, you were basically doing this job before I even picked you up. We're just going to help you to do the job better."

"The military wouldn't take me with my hearing loss," Clint pressed.

"And the military wouldn't take Director Fury with his one eye," Phil replied calmly. "We're not the military."

Clint's eyes widened as the truth seemed to be sinking in. He leaned to one side, bracing an elbow on the arm of the chair as he rested his mouth in his palm. Phil gave him a minute to process. Finally, Clint sat up slightly, moving his mouth from his hand so that he could speak again.

"You're serious," he said, staring at Phil in painfully obvious disbelief.

Phil narrowed his eyes at the kid as something dawned on him.

"You never really thought this was an option for you, did you? You just thought this was just killing time until we found out about your hearing loss."

"Well… yeah," Clint said as if that fact should be obvious.

That's when Phil realized just how deeply ingrained this insecurity was to Clint. He clearly had never even entertained the idea that he could be treated as anything other than disabled once his hearing loss was discovered. No wonder he played that so close to the chest. Phil couldn't help but wonder if anyone else in his life had known about it. He hadn't come across any medical records in Clint's file about how it had happened. And no one that Phil had spoken to from Clint's past – his old social worker, Frank Carson from the carnival – ever mentioned the affliction.

Not even Barney had mentioned it. But he had to have known. Was he the one who had sewn these seeds of doubt in Clint's mind, taught him that he would be forever limited by his disability?

"Then let me assure you that this changes nothing," Phil said evenly. "There may be a few extra kinks to work out, but it's nothing that we can't work with. This isn't a deal breaker. I still have every intention to offer you this job the day that you turn eighteen."

For a full minute, it seemed that Clint could do nothing more than blink dumbly at him. It was the reaction of a kid who had never seen a future for himself. Never believed that anything he wanted to do was within his reach because of his perceived disability.

"Well… _shit_ ," Clint finally said, seemingly at a loss of anything more to say.

"You know, we might even be able to help you with your hearing," Phil pointed out gently. "I mean… have you ever actually seen a doctor about it?" He already had his suspicions to the answer to that question.

"Uh, no, not really," Clint said, seeming a little surprised the question was even asked. "I mean, I don't think so. It happened a long time ago."

"How long ago?" Phil asked curiously.

"Um," Clint hummed as he leaned back, tipping his chair back onto two legs as the thought that over carefully. "I must have been around five." He looked at Phil thoughtfully. "You really think SHIELD could fix me?"

Phil almost answered before he realized that something was terribly wrong with the way Clint had worded the question. He hadn't asked if SHIELD could fix his hearing or his ears… he had asked if SHIELD could fix _him_. As if he as a person were a broken thing in need of repair.

Phil just couldn't let that go.

"In regard to your _hearing_ , we won't know anything until we get a doctor to take a look," Phil told him. "In regard to _you_ … you don't need fixing because you are not broken."

Phil could almost see the mental walls being built up around Clint as he looked away from him. He crossed his arms over his chest in a seemingly subconscious defensive move as he dropped the chair back down onto all four legs with a clatter.

He snorted derisively. "You have no idea, Coulson."

"Actually, I do," Phil countered firmly. Clint looked at him in surprise. "I won't pretend to know everything you've been through, but I know enough. I know that you've been through hell in your short seventeen years. I can't even imagine going through half of what you've been through. I know how easy it would have been for you to go down a bad road. But you didn't. When I met you, despite all the bad that had happened to you, you were still trying to _help_ other people. People you didn't know, people who would never even know that it was you who helped them. That tells me everything I need to know about what kind of person you are. And it's definitely _not_ a person that needs _fixing_."

Clint looked away, a flash of something Phil couldn't quite place in his eyes. He shifted uncomfortably, and Phil waited for some kind of response. When none came he sighed quietly to himself, knowing full well that Clint's self-worth issues were not going to be fixed in a day.

"Can I ask you something?" Phil asked, deciding to change tactics for now.

"I guess," Clint agreed warily, still not looking at him.

Phil took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he needed to know.

"Can you tell me how it happened? How your hearing was damaged?" There was a long pause, Clint seemingly frozen in place, almost as if he didn't know how to process the question. After a minute of heavy silence, Phil decided to throw him a lifeline. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But if not me, you'll at least need to tell Dr. Hendricks. She'll need to know in order to be able to figure out if there's anything we can do about it."

There was another long pause. Finally, just when Phil was sure he wasn't going to even acknowledge the question, Clint took a deep breath as he turned his head, but instead of looking at Phil he seemed to look passed him at something only he could see.

"My dad… he had a bit of a temper," he started quietly.

Phil felt his heart contract painfully.

He had his suspicions that this was where the story would go. The signs of child abuse were all painfully apparent, unable to be ignored. Even though there were records that indicated that Barney had attended Waverly Elementary School through the fifth grade, six-year-old Clint – who should have been enrolled in first grade at the time of his parents' deaths – had no records of having ever attended school. There were no records of Clint getting medical treatment for his hearing loss. And then there were the scars that Jac had seen on his back during his first exam, ones that spoke vividly of abuse. And, of course, there was the fact that Harold Barton had drunkenly crashed his car with his entire family in it on a Tuesday morning, a big red flag as to what kind of person he had been.

The evidence was overwhelming. But even knowing all that, it still didn't make this any easier to hear.

"Well… I guess that's not really true," Clint went on after a thoughtful pause. "I didn't really understand this until later, but apparently he was just a mean drunk. I've heard that he was actually a decent human being when he was sober. The problem was, as far back as I can remember, he would have a little coffee with his morning whiskey and it'd be all downhill from there." He paused. "Barney says he has some good memories of our dad. But I guess I was too little to remember the days when he only drank half the time he was awake."

Clint paused again, swallowing thickly and seeming to take a minute to compose himself. His eyes were steely, but a slight tremor in his hand when he reached up to run it through his hair told Phil that digging up these memories was taking a toll on him. As much as he wanted to tell him to stop, to spare him from this, he knew that he needed the whole story. So, he waited quietly until Clint was ready to continue.

"I dunno if it was because it happened slowly over time for him," Clint finally went on, his gaze still determinedly distant, not even seemingly aware that Phil was still there, "but Barney was always better at dealing with him than I was. He just knew how to get him to back off. I… I guess I never really grasped that. I was the easier target for him, I think. And I was always getting into something… could never sit still… used to drive him crazy…"

"Clint…" Phil said gently, unable to let that go without comment. "You know that wasn't your fault. An energetic kid isn't an excuse for anything like this."

Clint shrugged one shoulder, still not looking quite at him. "I guess. Anyway, he was pissed at me one day. Was wailing on me pretty good. Most of the time after a hit or two he'd storm off, but that night he just wouldn't let up. I don't remember why."

 _As if there could be any valid reason,_ Phil thought with bitter anger, but didn't dare interrupt him again.

"Barney wasn't around, because he usually didn't let it go on for too long if he was." He squinted, as if he were trying to recall something that was only half remembered. "I think I tried to get away… I think I managed to get a good kick in, which only pissed him off more. I… I don't remember if he hit me or if he threw me into something… or maybe he hit me into something… I dunno, it gets real fuzzy." His fingers wandered up to rub his temple absentmindedly, and Phil wasn't sure if it was the strain of trying to remember or if unconsciously he was remembering the pain of the injury. "I definitely got knocked out somehow. And when I woke up, all I could hear was a loud ringing in both ears. Eventually the ringing died off and in its place there was… nothing."

Phil allowed the kid a pause before he said anything.

"Jac said you have scars on your back, looked like they were done with a belt," Phil said. They were into it now, no sense in turning back. "Those were from your father?"

Phil was taken completely by surprise when Clint shook his head.

"Nah, dad was never one for a belt," he said dryly. "He was an old-fashioned fists kind of guy. Couldn't be bothered to track down a belt." He swallowed. "The scars are from the man who ran the last group home we were in. Didn't like me much. It was after that that Barney decided that we were runnin' away."

"So… Barney used to protect you?" he asked slowly.

He was still struggling with how to reconcile the fact that Barney and Clint once apparently had a strong bond with the fact that Barney had tried to kill Clint several times in the past couple months.

Clint nodded, that faraway look in his eyes again. "He would pull me out of the room when dad was angry. Used to clean me up too, since dad was never one for doctors. Couldn't keep explaining where injuries were coming from I guess. He also started teaching me to fight back when things were getting bad. And after I lost my hearing, Barney was the only one who learned sign language with me, he was the only one who made an effort to communicate with me."

Phil didn't have any words for that for a solid minute. It was one thing to think that there had always been bad blood between the brothers. It was something completely different to now imagine that they had once been so close and protective of each other.

"He was the only one?" Phil asked carefully. "What about… what about your mother?"

Phil posed the question cautiously. Clint had never once so much as mentioned his mother, so Phil really hadn't the slightest clue what to expect.

Clint's muscles tensed as he took in a shuddering breath. He opened his mouth several times as if to speak before snapping it closed again and seeming to rethink before he finally managed to string together a thought.

"She… she tried, she really did." Clint's voice was suddenly small and thin, sounding younger than Phil had ever heard him sound. He swallowed thickly and scrubbed a hand over his face before he went on, but his voice remained unsteady. "She just… Dad was never nice to her either, you know? She had… other things to worry about. Didn't have time to learn much sign language."

Phil gave Clint a sympathetic look, but the kid must had misread it because suddenly the was stammering on.

"She—she wasn't a bad person," he defended unnecessarily.

"She was just stuck in a bad situation," Phil supplied gently.

Clint's eyes shot up, locking on Phil's gaze, and the bone deep gratitude for his understanding was painfully clear for a split second before Clint schooled his features.

"Yeah," he confirmed with a nod.

He paused, as if thinking something over. Then he stood up out of the chair and crossed the small room, picking up his empty quiver from where it was leaned in the corner of the room. Phil had found it a little odd when he had asked that it be brought up, empty, from the detention wing, but hadn't questioned it. He watched as Clint sat back down in the chair, reaching inside the quiver and a moment later coming out with a very worn, folded piece of notebook paper.

Phil watched Clint unfold the paper with more gentle care and caution than Phil had ever seen from him.

"My mom, she used to write me notes and letters after I lost my hearing," Clint said, his eyes pinned down to the paper. "It was hard because I didn't read well, but I knew that she was trying. Most of her notes were lost after the accident, a lot of the stuff had already been cleared out of the house by the time me and Barney got out of the hospital. But this one had still been in my pocket that day, the last one she wrote me the night before… the night before she _died_." Clint practically choked on the word, clearly this was still a raw nerve for him. "I couldn't read it all the way through for years."

Phil listened silently to Clint's words until suddenly Clint was holding out the paper to him.

"I don't need to read that," Phil assured him, making no attempt to take the paper from him. "That's very personal, Clint. You don't need to share that with me or anyone else. You don't owe me that."

Clint brought the paper back to his lap for a moment as he seemed to consider this. Then, he held out the paper again.

"I _want_ to share this with you," he said steadily, meeting Phil's gaze.

The sudden openness in his eyes was startling to Phil. It really wasn't that he thought he owed this to Phil. He was asking Phil to share this burden with him. And for a moment, Phil was completely taken aback. Clint was always so guarded, he never thought he would get anywhere near sharing something so personal with this kid.

Phil gave Clint a smile as he very gingerly took the aged paper from him.

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

The paper was yellowed with age and there were small tears where it had been folded and unfolded so many times over the years. Phil was already thinking of better ways to preserve this piece of Clint's childhood. The ink of the blue pen was smudged in places, but the curved lettering was still legible, even after all this time.

 _Clint,_

 _My sweet, baby boy, you deserve so much more than this life that I have given you. I hope that you know this is not what I ever wanted for you or your brother. I hope one day you will know that I admire how brave and strong you are. I hope one day to give you a better life, the life that you deserve. Things are going to be changing soon, I promise you. Things will get better. Mommy is working on fixing this, I just need a little more time. I'm so sorry for not doing this sooner. Hold tight to Barney, okay baby? Things may be uncertain for a while, but I believe that in the end things will get better for all of us._

 _I love you up to the sky and to pieces._

 _Mom_

God. It was so much more heartbreaking and gut wrenching than Phil had expected. And he had expected a lot when he knew that he would be reading the last words a mother had written to her son. It was like a hand had reached into his chest and clamped down on his insides with an iron grip.

Clint's mother had been planning on leaving her husband and making a better life for her and her sons… but was killed the next day.

"She sounds like she was a strong and brave person," Phil finally said quietly as he handed the paper back to Clint. "And she loved you a lot."

Clint nodded as he carefully folded the paper back up and placed it back in the compartment inside of his quiver with a quiet reverence.

They lapsed into silence for a while. Phil could sense that the subject of Clint's mother was still an open wound for him and that it was still too difficult for him to really talk about. Phil had already gotten more of a glimpse into that part of Clint's life than probably anyone else ever had. He decided to leave it at that for now.

But one line of that letter really stuck with Phil. _Hold tight to Barney, okay baby?_ More proof that once upon a time, Barney had been a good a decent person, one that this mother had trusted to watch over her youngest child. How did a person go from being a protective older brother to being one that shot his younger brother with the intent to kill and collect a paycheck?

"What happened?" Phil finally couldn't help but ask after several minutes of tense silence. "What happened between you and Barney?"

Clint sighed heavily. "I've been asking myself that for years," he said flatly.

He paused, biting his lip before he unexpectedly went on.

"After a few years in the system, I kinda got the feeling that he felt dragged down by me. For a long time, I couldn't function without him, couldn't communicate with anyone without him. Even as my hearing was coming back as I got older, it was just habit for me to communicate through him. I think he started to resent the fact that he couldn't have his own life. It had been a tension that had been building for a long time… but it really came to a head when he turned eighteen. When he wanted to leave, when he wanted to join the military knowing full well that I couldn't follow him there. And it wasn't just about waiting for me to catch up in age… it was literally impossible for me to ever enlist with my hearing problems. I was more independent from him at that point, but still I just… I didn't want him to go."

Clint squeezed his eyes shut. "So, I asked him to stay. Practically begged him. And I shouldn't have done that, shouldn't have put that on him. I should have let him go. Then maybe things would have… would have turned out differently."

There was a heavy silence following this statement.

"Clint, how old were you when Barney turned eighteen?" Phil questioned quietly. "Twelve? Thirteen?"

"Twelve," Clint said as he opened his eyes and looked over at him curiously, obviously unsure why that mattered.

"There's no shame for a twelve-year-old kid to want to hang on to the only family that he had left," Phil told him gently. "Barney had been your only constant in a life that had never stable. It was normal for you to not want to lose that."

"Yeah, but I should have let him go," Clint insisted. "I should have been stronger, I should have let him have his own life. If I had he never would have…" He cut himself off as if he caught himself saying something he hadn't wanted to. "If I had, maybe things would have been different."

"His decisions are not your responsibility," Phil tried to get him to understand. "There are a lot of things that Barney could have chosen to do with his life. Becoming a hit man for hire was no where near his only option. He had a good thing going with the military. He could have chosen to stick with that and lived a comfortable life. But he didn't. That's on him, Clint."

"You don't understand, Phil," Clint said quietly, his gaze falling to look at his hands clasped in his lap.

"Then explain it to me," Phil implored gently. Because they had to get passed this if he wanted Clint to keep moving forward and there was obviously something that Clint wasn't telling him.

Clint was quiet for a long time at that, seeming more conflicted than Phil had seen him. He leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him, bracing his elbows on his knees.

"I won't blame you if you want to take back the job offer after I tell you this," Clint said flatly, his gaze pinned determinedly to the floor between his feet. "But I want you to understand… I didn't really understand what was happening until it was too late. And once I knew… I tried to do something about it. I really did."

Clint took a shuddering breath. "After Barney turned eighteen and after I begged him to stay, suddenly he started disappearing with Swordsman a lot. They'd be gone all night sometimes. I didn't think too much of it, Swordsman always said that he had side jobs that he worked to make some extra money. It made sense that Barney would want in, he was always worried about money and being able to support himself outside of the carnival. This went on for years."

Clint paused, scrubbing a hand over his mouth before he continued. "I was fourteen when they first invited me along. I had been feeling so distant from Barney the past two years, I was just happy that he was reaching out to me, you know? Thought maybe it could be like old times again. Swordsman told me that they helped people and sometimes they had to do things that were messy and unpleasant. He coached me on… on how to look at a person as just another target, just like the wooden targets we used in the show. Looking back, I can see how he had been laying the groundwork for that logic for years…"

"I… I didn't _know_." The pain in his voice was suddenly palpable as he squeezed his eyes shut. "I didn't know what they were really being hired to do and never even really tried to find out. I just believed them when they said we were going after bad people, trying to make the world better. I didn't know that the people who hired Swordsman to do their dirty work – to steal things or take out their enemies – were the bad people. I didn't know that until I had been killing people for him for almost two years."

Phil was glad that Clint had closed his eyes, was grateful when they remained squeezed shut. Because suddenly, Phil had no control over his features. He couldn't hide the absolutely horrified look on his face. Every time he thought that Clint's story couldn't get any worse… it did.

How could anyone in their right mind do that to a fourteen-year-old _kid_?

And just like that, the horror that Phil felt dissolved into rage. It was then that he knew that one day he would track down Jacques Duquesne and make him pay dearly for what he had done.

"I overheard them talking one night," Clint went on, pulling Phil back to the present. "That's how I found out what was really going on and that they were also stealing from Frank. That's when I confronted them. Barney told me to grow some balls, said that he was doing what he had to do to get us the hell out of there and then he stormed off. I guess… I hadn't realized how badly he wanted to get out of there. And if I wouldn't let him join the military, he had to find another way." He paused for a moment. "It was only after he left that… that Swordsman got violent."

Phil carefully schooled his features, knowing that if he looked angry when Clint opened his eyes it would be misinterpreted. He took a couple steadying breaths before he was pushing himself up in the bed, swinging his feet around in order to be in a more proper sitting position facing Clint.

"Clint… look at me," Phil implored softly. "Please."

Clint took several deep breaths before he found the will to open his eyes and tentatively raise his gaze. Phil made sure he had the kid's full attention before he spoke.

"None of that is your fault," Phil said firmly and evenly, meeting Clint's gaze and willing him to really listen to his words. "You were a fourteen-year-old kid being manipulated by adults who should have been looking out for you rather than using you for their own gains. That is _not_ your fault. No one in their right mind would ever see _any_ part of that situation as your fault. You hear me?"

Something in Clint Barton cracked. For just a moment, Phil could see in his eyes just how desperately he wanted to believe him. Seeing that, Phil took a risk. Slowly, he reached out a hand and placed it gently on Clint's shoulder. Clint tensed, but didn't flinch or pull away.

"I'll say it every day for the next ten years if you need me to," Phil said. "It's _not_ your fault. None of it. Not what Swordsman did to you and not the choices that Barney made. None of that is a burden that you need to bear. I promise you that."

There was another long pause. Finally, Clint spoke.

"I just… feel like I should have done better," he said quietly. "I feel like it shouldn't have taken me so long to figure out what was really going on."

Phil sighed. "That need to always do better ultimately will serve you well in life. But you also can't let the actions of others drag you down, especially when you were meant for so much more than this."

Clint was still frowning as he leaned back slightly, and Phil took the hint to drop his hand.

"Listen to me, kid," he went on, dipping his head and keeping Clint's gaze when he tried to look away. "Let me tell you something: you are _seventeen years old_. No one has everything figured out at seventeen years old. You're still growing up and you still have plenty of time to do what you want with your life. True, you have more to deal with than any other seventeen-year-old has any right to, but your life doesn't have to be stuck in this place where you are now. What Jacques Duquesne put you through does not have to define your life from here on out. You can choose to be better."

"So… after all that you still want to recruit me?" Clint asked, a little skeptically. "Guess I don't have to be well adjusted to kill for you?"

"Clint, this is about so much more than your ability to kill people," Phil said, and by the way that Clint's eyes widened he could tell that idea had never occurred to the kid. Phil suddenly felt guilty for not making that more clear before his moment. "Kid, you are extremely intelligent, you've got a strategic mind that will put twenty-year veterans to shame. If you decide to join SHIELD, it'll be about more than just hitting a target. You are very gifted and you have so much potential. Your past doesn't have to hold you back from what you can do with your life."

"Intelligent?" Clint snorted, letting his gaze fall and shifting a bit, clearly uncomfortable with the compliment. "My dad used to say I was dumber than a bag of rocks."

Phil felt pained at that along with a spark of anger, speaking without really thinking through what he was about to say.

"Well, he couldn't be any more wrong. And maybe if he had been decent enough to send you to school when he was supposed to, you would have known that sooner."

Clint's gaze snapped to him, looking at him in sudden confusion.

"What?" he finally said.

Phil was taken aback for a moment. Was it really possible that Clint didn't know?

"You were… six when your parents died, right?" Phil said gently. Clint just nodded. "Were you in school at the time?"

"Dad said I was too young for school," Clint said quietly.

"You weren't," Phil said, sending the kid an apologetic look as he said it. He wouldn't have sprung this on him like this if he had known it was going to be a revelation. "Most kids start preschool around three or four. You should have been in the first grade at six." Clint stared blankly, obviously unsure how to even begin to process this piece of information. "Sorry, I just assumed you knew that. It's not uncommon in abuse cases. It's easier to keep a kid home and isolate him rather than try and explain away the evidence all the time."

"Yeah… _easier_ …" Clint said flatly, his gaze falling to the floor.

"Hey," Phil said gently, waiting until Clint looked back up at him before he continued. He spoke firmly and steadily, willing Clint to believe these words. "That doesn't make it _right_ or _okay_. It's a very twisted form of logic and it doesn't at all justify what he did to you."

Clint nodded vaguely but taking in his blank expression Phil suspected that the kid was in too much shock to really absorb anything he was saying. There was another long pause as Clint struggled to take all this in.

"Well, god _damn_ ," Clint finally sighed heavily, scrubbing a hand over his face. He laughed, but strangely there was no humor in the noise. "That'll make you reevaluate your childhood, huh?" He snorted. "Not that there was a high opinion of it to begin with."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pile more on right now," Phil said gently.

Clint nodded vaguely as his shoulders slumped. The exhaustion never seemed to be far from this kid and now it came crashing back over him in a wave. But there was one more thing that Phil needed to address before he could let this go for now.

"Clint," Phil said, waiting for Clint's gaze to drift toward him. "Thank you. Thank you for sharing all this with me. I know this was no small thing for you to talk about all this, and I promise you that I don't take any of this lightly."

"I know you don't, Phil," Clint admitted with a small but appreciative smile.

Phil would look back on that day many times over the course of the next few years. It was the moment when Clint really put his trust in him, but it was also the moment that Clint really put his trust in himself and his ability to read people.

When Phil started wavering where he sat, Clint silently stood and moved to help him careful lay back down. But instead of returning to the chair, Clint settled himself on the floor right next to the bed, leaning in the corner where the bed met the wall. Phil couldn't help but smile as he watched Clint drifting off, looking relaxed for the first time since he had returned. Phil felt proud that his presence was able to still be a comforting one for Clint, glad that he was able to relieve some of the burden that this seventeen-year-old kid carried.

They had come a long way from the snarky, sometimes hostile kid that Phil had picked up in the Detroit Detention Center. And they would still have a long way to go. But it would be a path that they would walk together.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** LOTS of information in this chapter! Hopefully it didn't come across too dense, but I really wanted to get this all in before moving on. Please don't forget to leave a review, and hopefully I'll be back soon with the final chapter!

* * *

 _ **Epilogue Sneak Peek**_

"Here," Phil said, holding it out to Clint.

Clint turned back to him, cocking a curious eyebrow before he reached out and took the small parcel. He carefully unwrapped the napkin.

"A cookie?" he said, confused.

"It's all I could find around the infirmary," Phil admitted. "And it was easier than lugging a cake all the way up here anyway." He paused, but Clint didn't seem any less confused. Phil gave him a warm smile. "Happy eighteenth birthday, kid."


	21. Epilogue

**Author's Note:** Hello! Back already for the final installment! Apologies that it's so short, but it's where this story needed to end. This story has taken up a good chunk of my life the past ten months, but I wouldn't have it any other way! I feel like I've learned a lot and improved a lot and I'm excited for my next projects!

In leu of shoutouts to individual reviewers of the last chapter, since it was only posted a few days ago and not everyone has had a chance to read it, I would like to throw a general shoutout to **ANYONE** who has reviewed **ANY** chapter in this whole story! I wish I could call each of you out individually for how amazing you are! I have officially gotten over **200 reviews** on this story, which is just mindblowing to me! I very much appreciate all the support and encouragement throughout this story, it means the world to me!

If you're interested in more stories from me, I ramble for a little bit about other things I'm working on at the end of the chapter ( _cough_ SEQUEL? _cough_ ).

* * *

 **Epilogue**

As Phil pushed the door open, he immediately spotted the shadowed figure sitting on the ledge surrounding the roof. He paused long enough to catch his breath from the climb, still not quite back to where he had been before he had been shot. Then he carefully made his way over to where the kid sat.

"What are you doing up?" Clint asked, glancing over at him as Phil perched himself on the ledge facing the opposite direction, both feet remaining planted firmly on the roof of the building.

"I could ask you the same thing," Phil pointed out. "Have you been out here all night?"

Clint had disappeared from the infirmary late the night before. This wasn't unusual at this point, over the past week Clint would disappear into the base for hours at a time, something he now had permission to do. It was unusual for him to be gone for the entire night, though Phil had his suspicions as to why tonight was different. In any case, it was just before sunrise when Phil had finally climbed out of his infirmary bed – which he was only still confined to as a precaution at this point – in order to go look for the kid. It didn't take long to track him down as he had been spending a lot of time on the roof lately.

Clint shrugged noncommittedly as he shifted his gaze back to stare off into the distance. Phil took the opportunity to dig in his pocket, pulling out a small item wrapped in a napkin.

"Here," Phil said, holding it out to Clint.

Clint turned back to him, cocking a curious eyebrow before he reached out and took the small parcel. He carefully unwrapped the napkin.

"A cookie?" he said, confused.

"It's all I could find around the infirmary," Phil admitted. "And it was easier than lugging a cake all the way up here anyway." He paused, but Clint didn't seem any less confused. Phil gave him a warm smile. "Happy eighteenth birthday, kid."

Clint's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He considered Phil for a moment – almost as if he were gauging if he were being sincere or not – before shifting his attention back to the cookie. He took an experimental bite and then made a face.

"A sugar cookie?" he asked, sending Phil a playful glare. "Really? Couldn't even snag a chocolate chip one?"

"Believe it or not, there aren't a lot of options in the infirmary in the middle of the night," Phil shot back, rolling his eyes but his smile unwavering.

Clint shrugged, taking another bite. "It's alright. I think I've only been given something on my birthday twice in my whole life."

"Really?" Phil said, vaguely surprised. "Even at the carnival?"

"Birthdays weren't a big deal at the carnival," Clint said, his voice so carefully neutral it was almost clinical. "We were always busy, if we weren't putting on a show we were practicing and if we weren't practicing we were packing up and heading to our next show. Frank didn't have time to keep track of and acknowledge everyone's birthdays. Sometimes people would celebrate for their close friends or family… but I guess I wasn't really close enough to anyone for that."

 _Sounds like something an older brother should have done,_ Phil thought bitterly to himself, but was careful not to let his thoughts show in his expression. He was still struggling with the idea that once upon a time Clint looked up to Barney and believed him to be a good older brother.

"Well, then I'm thinking we might need to take a field trip to track down a real birthday cake later," Phil said with a smile.

At that, Clint gave Phil an honest to goodness _smile_ , his eyes suddenly shining with childish excitement for the first time since Phil had met him. It was refreshing to see from this teenager who had seemingly missed out on having a real childhood.

"Chocolate cake?" he asked hopefully.

"I think we can arrange that," Phil assured him, and he couldn't help but grin at the reaction such a simple gesture had earned him.

They lapsed into a companionable silence. Clint finished the cookie before relaxing into the quiet of the morning.

It was only when the sun had fully emerged over the horizon that Phil spoke again.

"How does it feel to finally be a legal adult?" Phil asked.

Clint considered this for a moment before he shrugged one shoulder. "Not so different. It's not like being a minor discouraged the state of Michigan from sending me to big boy jail or the state of Illinois for wanting to try me as an adult for something I didn't do. It is nice to not have to worry about dodging CPS anymore though."

Phil couldn't help but roll his eyes at that. Of course those would be the kind of things that Clint would focus on.

"So, as a legal adult, have you put any thought into what you want to do with your life?" he asked.

"No pressure there," Clint snorted. But after a pause he went on thoughtfully. "I've never put much thought into an actual long-term plan before. I've always just lived day to day and I just thought that's how it would always be for me. Even after years at the carnival, in the back of my mind I was still always waiting for something to happen, something to fall apart and force us to move on." He swallowed. "But last week, after I took out Diaz, when I had every opportunity to get away clean… I was halfway back here before I even really realized where I was going. Whenever I've left a place in the past, I've never once looked back. This was the first time that I looked back… and it was the first time that it felt right to go back."

Phil couldn't help but smile at that, feeling encouraged that Clint already seemed so comfortable here.

"But…" Clint went on, frowning before he looked over and met Phil's gaze. "Living in one place, doing one job… it just sounds like something out of a movie. It's something I never saw for myself, never even really considered. Do you really think I could do this?"

"Clint, I have never met anyone more suited for this life," Phil told him evenly. "You can make a real difference in the world if you stay here. I won't lie to you, it won't be easy, and it will often be an uphill battle to overcome what you've been through. But I will tell you this: if you do decide to stick it out here, I've already informed Fury that I will be your handler. That means I'll be there to help you through the training program and when you're ready to be a field agent I'll be the one to assign your missions and help you carry them out."

Clint stared at him in surprise.

"It's ultimately your decision," Phil went on. "If you don't think this is for you, I will drive you out of here myself, I will even help you land on your feet with a place to stay and job prospects. This is a life that you have to choose for yourself, it has to feel right to you. But, if you do choose it, I just want you to know that you won't walk this path alone."

"You'd… you'd do that for me?" Clint said. There was a measure of doubt in his tone.

"Damn right, I would," Phil said. "I brought you in to this and I'm willing to see you through it for as long as you need me to. We'd make a hell of a team, Barton. If you're up for it."

Clint smirked but he was shaking his head, snorting a self-deprecating laugh. "I just don't get it. I don't get why you'd wanna do that for me."

"Because you are a good person, Clint Barton," Phil told him seriously. "And its way past time that you caught a break in life." He paused. "You don't have to believe it right now, but just know that I do. I believe you are worth more than the life of a random drifter. You have so much potential and you can do so much more with your life. And the fact that you are still here means that some part of you knows that too, even if you're afraid to admit that to yourself."

"Why would I be afraid?" Clint asked defensively, his shoulders stiffening.

"Because if you admit an attachment to this place or a desire for this life, it means that you have something to lose," Phil explained. "And so far in your life, you've experienced nothing but loss. So, I get it, kid. I get why it's hard for you. And it's why I want to stick with you. Not because I have to, but because I care about what happens to you. Everyone deserves to have stability in their lives. Including you."

Clint took a deep breath, looking down at his hands resting in his lap.

"What if I let you down?" he asked quietly. "What if you do all this for me and I still fail?"

Phil reached over and put a gentle hand on Clint's shoulder, bringing his attention back to him.

"You won't," Phil said evenly, meeting his gaze. "I will push you, but I'll never expect anything from you that's beyond your abilities."

Clint looked at him, taking a moment to really read him. Phil held his gaze evenly as he willed the kid to see the truth in his words. Finally, Clint gave him a tentative smile.

"I mean… I guess all my stuff is here anyway," he said with a shrug, causing Phil to drop his hand back down.

Phil snorted a laugh at that. " _All_ your stuff? You mean your bow, quiver, and the clothes on your back? Yeah, I can imagine how much of a pain it would be to have to pack all that up."

"I'd also like to finish reading that _Catcher in the Rye_ book," he went on as if Phil hadn't spoken, his small smile growing as his eyes sparked with honest to goodness laughter. "So maybe I could hang around for a bit. You know, 'till you get sick of me."

"Well, that's not going to happen anytime soon, kid," Phil said lightly, though there was a spark of the promise the words held in his gaze.

Clint nodded, the smile remaining on his face. Phil could almost see the invisible weight lifting off him as he accepted that he could stop running, stop living his life one day at a time. He gazed around the compound and Phil could sense the relief in the idea that he could call this place home.

"Alright, kid," Phil said with a smile. "Here is it. Now that you're a legal adult, I can officially offer this to you. I'd like to offer you a chance to be an operative with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division." He held out his hand. "What do you say?"

Clint gave him a mischievous grin as leaned back so that he could reach out and firmly shake his hand.

"Let's give 'em hell, Phil."

 **END**

* * *

 **Author's Note :** Thank you so much to everyone for reading this story! I'd love to hear your final thoughts! And if you're interested in more Clint Barton centric stories, definitely follow me because I have several coming down the pipeline! If you're interested in reading about those see below. If not, please know that I've very much appreciated all the love and support on this story! Until next time!

* * *

 _ **Future Stories**_

 **Out of the Ashes Sequel:** Yes! This is not the end of this storyline! I've already started working on the sequel to this story, set several years down the road where Clint and Phil are field agents working missions. I'm about 6000 words into it, but I really want to flesh it out more before I start posting it so hopefully there won't be long waits between chapters. My working title is _Walk Through Fire_ but that's subject to change. It may take a few months before I get to a point where I'm ready to start posting it but know that it is definitely coming!

 **Whumptober Challenge:** So, this challenge went around Tumblr last October with 31 Whump prompts, and you were supposed to write a short drabble or one shot every day for the month. Wellll, a one shot a day is a little much for my hectic schedule, so I've been working on the prompts sporadically and out of order on the side since then. I've currently got 11 of the prompts completed, 8 in progress, 6 with ideas, and 6 that I'm still staring blankly at. They are all Clint Barton centric, some with Phil, some with Natasha and some with all the rest of the Avengers. I'm hoping to get all 31 prompts finished before I start posting them, which will hopefully be within the next couple weeks now that I have time to focus on them!

 **Avengers High School AU** : I'm not quite sure what possessed me with this one because I'm normally not one for wildly different AUs, but this idea was just demanding to be written. It's an AU where the Avengers are all teenagers within the foster care system, taken in by Phil who is a foster parent. The story starts out with Steve, Tony, Thor and Bruce all already living with Phil when he takes in a young Clint just out of juvie. No idea when this one will be posted, but if there's interest in it let me know and I'll see what I can do to finish it within my lifetime! ;)

 **Post CA: Civil War AU:** So, this is a short novella that I had been hoping to post before Infinity War came out and completely disproved it, but we all see how that turned out! So now it's an AU! It takes place after Steve frees his team from the raft prison after Civil War and focuses on the consequences it has on those now fugitives with families, especially Clint's family. This is another one where I have no idea when I'll finish it, but if you're interested in it definitely let me know and I'll definitely work harder to get it done!


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